


A Warrior, A Rogue And A Mage Walk Into A Tavern

by TheSwingbyJeanHonoreFragonard



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Comedy, Drama, Fantasy, Fluff and Angst, High Fantasy, Historical Fantasy, M/M, Magic, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Swords & Sorcery, War, when what started as a DND parody took on a serious life of its own
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-01-12 23:11:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 33,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21234143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSwingbyJeanHonoreFragonard/pseuds/TheSwingbyJeanHonoreFragonard
Summary: ...but they eventually walk back out to dismantle the structure of their local government or something.





	1. On Being Shady

A dark alley was the best place to meet up with an assassin-for-hire. 

Or at least that’s what the barkeep from the Tipsy Apple Turnover up the hill said when Sicheng asked for suggestions. A little stereotypical, yes, but dark alleys wouldn’t be stereotypical if they didn’t offer so many benefits to shady dealings. They were just the place to _ go _.

Unfortunately, the alley Dong Sicheng had set the meeting up in was quite brightly lit. And it wasn’t supposed to be. “Hey,” he whispered to the golden wisp floating above him. “Hey. You. Yeah, you.”

The palm-sized globe of fire didn’t seem to acknowledge his frantic gesturing. It just swayed gently from side to side and flickered in and out a little bit like the wavering light of a candle. To be so tiny it could make a lot of light! Sicheng tried to ignore it but it was getting close to the time he was supposed to meet the best assassin in town and it’s not like you could meet someone in a dark alley if the alley wasn’t dark.

“Can you tone it down a bit?” Sicheng usually didn’t mind golden wisps. They could light up a town better than lanterns could. Especially in summers like these when they clumped together on the walls of buildings or on the trunks of trees to mate. If you only saw their heatless fire from a distance, you’d think they were cute and maybe even fairy-like, but when their fire dimmed, they were quite hideous-looking bug things about two times as grotesque and about six times as large as fireflies. _ Wisp _ didn’t even feel like an appropriate species name. Sicheng wondered if he could file a claim with the Bureau. 

“Hey,” Sicheng tried again. “I know you can hear me.” He held out his hands, cupping them to give the creature a place to land. He couldn’t actually talk to animals. Well, not in a way that they could understand. That wasn’t going to stop him from talking to them, though. “Come here.” He pitched his voice an octave higher like he was trying to call a dog. “Here wispy wispy wispy.”

The wisp fluttered down towards him, hesitantly pausing on the windowsill above Sicheng’s head before cautiously landing on his palm. Sicheng quickly clamped his hands around the thing, caging it with his fingers and blocking the majority of its light.

“There,” he muttered. “Now this alley looks properly suspicious.” And, more importantly, _ he _ looked properly suspicious. He’d bought a brand new black cloak from the tailor that morning and had spent the majority of the day dirtying it and ripping holes into it and tearing it at the hems so that it was properly ragged. When he had the cloak’s hood over his head and pulled low over his face, when he stood _ just so _ in the alley’s shadows, he looked like he was up to no good.

Perfect.

A noise from off to his right surprised Sicheng and he let out an undignified squawk as he whirled around to face the sound.

At the far end of the alley stood a man. No. ‘Man’ didn’t really describe him. He looked like a _ hero _. The shining silver armor he wore caught the light of the midnight moon and, even in such low light, the blue scarf around his neck seemed to glow. A mighty warrior if Sicheng had ever seen one. Like the ones depicted almost as saints in the murals painted all over the city. But an honorable, upstanding hero with a functioning moral compass wasn’t who Sicheng was supposed to be meeting here.

Sicheng took a step back, hoping that he could squeeze himself further into the alley’s shadows. He’d wait for the knight to pass through and then go back to waiting for the man he spent forty whole gold pieces on hiring for a job. But…

“Are you the client,” the knight asked, stepping forward. He took off his plumed helmet and looked straight into Sicheng’s hiding place.

“You can see me,” Sicheng asked. He was wearing all-black!

“You’re glowing.” 

The man didn’t have to point. Sicheng could see the light of the wisp in his clasped hands reflected in the man’s gleaming armor.

“Are you the client,” the stranger repeated.

“What client,” Sicheng asked. The wisp in his hands bit at one of his fingers and he yelped and let it free. “Gah!” The wisp flew up into the air with a high-pitched call and its gold light revealed more of the stranger’s face.

His hair was as light and gold as the wisp’s glow and his eyebrows were as thick and heavy as the armor he wore. He was shorter than Sicheng, but there was something about his posture and demeanor that made him feel significantly taller.

“You’re the one hiring an assassin, right?” The man moved closer. Quickly enough that Sicheng couldn’t spin out of the way before the man’s gloved hand had him pinned to the brick wall of the building. “You sent me half the gold in advance and I’ll get the remaining half when the job is done.”

“That’s what we agreed upon, yes,” said Sicheng. He wrapped a hand around the knight’s wrist and attempted to free himself but he couldn’t. “Wait. You’re the assassin?” He looked the knight up and down. “Wearing all of that bulky, noisy armor with a broadsword nearly as tall as you are strapped to your back? _ You’re _ the King of Stealth?”

The man stepped back, giving Sicheng some much needed space. “The King of Stealth is my father. He’s busy with higher-paying jobs so he sent me. My name is Qian Kun.” 

“I’m sorry,” Sicheng squeaked out in disbelief. “How are you… How are you going to sneak up on anyone wearing all of that?”

Kun wiped a smudge off of his helmet and then tucked it under one armpit. “Do you know how many knights are stationed in this town? I’d blend in way more like this-” He waved a hand towards himself. “-than like that.” He pointed to Sicheng’s shady up-to-no-good outfit. “Regardless of appearances, I _ am _ a high-ranking member of the rogue’s guild.”

Just hearing that made Sicheng laugh. “It always shocked me that a band of secretive spies and killers would set up shop right in the middle of downtown.”

“What we have is a legitimate, above board business. There’s no need to be secretive.”

For a moment, Sicheng watched the golden wisp flutter up towards the gutters of the roofs above their heads. When it disappeared from sight, taking its glow with it, Sicheng lowered his gaze back to Kun’s slightly irritated expression. “You’re not some city guard trying to catch me breaking the law, are you?”

“_ Are _ you breaking the law,” Kun asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m… no longer sure.”

Kun smirked. “Killing people for a living is a dangerous job. Some of them fight back.” He balled his free hand into a fist and beat it against the breastplate of his armor. “That’s why I wear this. And the sword… Well, it’s a lot easier to kill someone with that than with one of these, isn’t it?” He opened his fist and, resting on his gloved palm, was one of Sicheng’s many switchblades.

It took a moment for Sicheng to even recognize it. And a moment longer to realize that he hadn’t even _ felt _ Kun take it from him. “Wait.” He attempted to snatch it back but Kun closed his hand around the small weapon.

“And what about you,” Kun shot back. “You’re a walking contradiction yourself. A cleric who swore an oath of non-violence yet you’re carrying around more weapons than the law should allow.”

“It’s not like I use them on anyone,” Sicheng defended himself. “Often.” He made another grab for the blade but Kun was faster. “I just like to collect pointy things.”

“What about my sword? That’s pointy, isn’t it?”

Sicheng rolled his eyes. “That’s too wide to be _ pointy _. I don’t care how sharp it is.”

Kun scoffed. He flipped the switchblade open and then closed it again as if testing it. He said, “You try to make fun of me yet you’re wearing that tacky cloak that makes you look like a hoodlum from down by the river.”

“I’m no hoodlum,” Sicheng protested. “I’m lower middle class.” He made a grab for Kun’s hand again only for the rogue in heavy plate armor to jerk his hand out of Sicheng’s reach. “And how do you know I’m a cleric?”

“Because you’re… you know…” Kun made an ambiguous gesture in Sicheng’s direction with the switchblade. “...and you’re also wearing earrings of the symbol of your patron god.”

Self consciously, Sicheng raised a hand to his ears. He thought he was doing a good job of concealing all of his identifiable characteristics beneath the hood of his cloak. That was the whole point!

“Plus,” said Kun, “the guy who recommended I take the job from you described you in full head-to-toe detail because, apparently, you are quite fond of dressing up.”

Sicheng fumed. Curse that lousy gossip Dejun! “It’s called a disguise!” He made another swipe at Kun’s hand. That time, at least, he successfully grabbed the man’s wrist and had to use all of his strength to pry the man’s fingers open and get his switchblade back. With a sigh of relief, he pulled the draping fabric of his cloak aside and stashed the weapon back in its holster on the utility belt strapped across his chest where all sorts of blades, shivs, throwing knives and darts were tucked away. He counted them just to make sure Kun hadn’t made off with another one while he wasn’t looking. 

They were all there.

Sicheng looked up and noticed the way Kun stared at him. He yanked the cloak back over his shoulders and chest, hiding his ludicrous weaponry with the smallest dusting of pink across his cheeks.

“Some mage,” Kun quipped.

“Some assassin,” Sicheng fired back. “I’m your client. Did you forget already? Don’t you want to hear the details of the job?”

Kun visibly fought the urge to roll his eyes. “I would hope you would, seeing as you’ve already paid me.”

“Is it too late to get a refund?” There was no harm in asking.

“Yes,” Kun replied sharply.

Sicheng sighed. “I’ve got a scroll that should have all of the information on the target.”

“This one?” Kun held up a small roll of parchment held in place with a circle of twine.

“Yeah, that one. Hey!” Sicheng patted his sides and wondered for the second time how Kun had pilfered something off of him when he couldn’t even remember the last time the man had moved.

Kun loosened the twine and unfurled the scroll. “It’s too dark to read this here. Let’s walk and talk,” Kun suggested. “We can go for a round of ale.”

Sicheng had to ask, “I thought shady back alleys was where people like you did business?”

Kun started walking. Even in such a ridiculous get-up, he did not make half as much noise as he should have. “What better starting point for an adventure is there than a tavern?” When he noticed that Sicheng wasn’t following him, he glanced over his shoulder. The moonlight shone on the sharp features of his face but his serious expression warmed considerably when he smiled. “Let’s go to the Tipsy Apple Turnover up the hill.”

It was Sicheng’s least favorite tavern (because of that lousy gossip Dejun!) but Sicheng had a policy that stated he should never turn down a round of ale. “Sure thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @[CuriousCat](https://curiouscat.me/TheSwingbyJHF)


	2. Three's Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The running gag here is that Kun is a rogue who behaves like a warrior, Guanheng is a warrior who behaves like a mage and Sicheng is a mage who behaves like a rogue.

The town was in the process of getting prepared for the big summer festival.

Well, ‘big summer festival’ was kind of vague, as there were roughly four or five or maybe even six or seven city-wide festivals over the course of the three-month warm season. Summer was just the time of year for the things. The weather was too cold and damp in spring and the whole city was too burdened with the harvest during autumn. If Sicheng was keeping proper track of his weeks and had a decent grasp of secular activities in town, this upcoming festival was--what was it?--in honor of... the red dragon... who protected the city? 

Yeah. That sounded about right.

“Ahh, look at this place,” Sicheng mused. He looked from one end of the small square to the other. “Place is a dump most of the time but they’ll fix it up in a hurry when it’s festival season.”

Kun hummed thoughtfully. “Really? I always thought this place looked nice.”

“You  _ do _ strike me as the exact sort of person who would think that.”

Even at this time of night, the square bustled with activity. Carpenters climbed up and down wooden scaffolding, calling to each other as they hammered away at their projects. Artisans hung strings of red lanterns across the narrow paths between rows of houses and draped multi-colored flags and patterned cloths over the sides of buildings. Merchants were busy building and decorating the market stands where they’d sell their wares during the festivities. Horse-drawn carts lined the cobblestone streets, weighed down by crates of food and clothing and materials and weapons ready to be sold to anyone who had enough gold pieces.

There wasn’t much of an actual crowd, though, as everyone who was here was working. Not celebrating. In a few day’s time, the air would be filled with the smell of grilled food and fresh-made candy and the music would echo for blocks and blocks.

Sicheng wondered if he would be able to successfully sneak out of the temple this time to enjoy it.

“I actually forgot all about this festival,” Kun admitted. The lantern light glittered across the smooth surface of his armor as they walked. “I can’t believe it’s that time of year already.”

Sicheng shrugged. “I don’t particularly care about the reason. I just like a good festival.” The temple always stood empty on festival days because even the most devout of the congregation took the day off to enjoy the bargains at the market or spend the day at home away from work or school. In other words, Sicheng’s already long and tedious days were made even longer and more tedious by the fact that the halls of the temple were so quiet and stood so empty. He really didn’t want to be alone while everyone else was having fun.

By the time the two of them made it to the other side of the square and started up the hill that led to the tavern, Sicheng was properly hungry. 

A round of ale wouldn’t be enough for him. He would need dinner, too. 

“What’s today? Fourthday? No, fifthday?” Sicheng pondered. “I think the Tipsy Apple Turnover have a roasted chicken special.” He looked over at Kun when the armored man stayed quiet. “It may be a bit too much food for two people, though. Hey, what’s wrong with-”

Kun cut him off by clamping a gloved hand over Sicheng’s mouth. “Shh!”

Sicheng attempted to protest but couldn’t get the words out when his mouth was pressed flat by Kun’s hand.

“We’ve got trouble,” Kun hissed into Sicheng’s ear.

The question on the tip of Sicheng’s tongue was ‘Where?’ because he kind of wanted to rush headlong into it, but he couldn’t ask it. His mouth was still muffled. Kun seemed to know exactly what Sicheng wanted to ask, however, because he twisted Sicheng to the right a bit so that Sicheng faced the danger up the road.

Four rough-and-tumble men in cheap leather armor had drawn their short swords on a frail-looking boy in mage robes.

Sicheng reached beneath his cloak for one of his throwing knives and hefted it in his hand, taking aim.

Kun pulled his hand away from Sicheng’s mouth. “Your oath of non-violence. Hello?”

The cleric scoffed. “Is it violence if I aim at the wall but that guy just so happens to be in the way?”

“Yes,” Kun cried out emphatically.

Sicheng shrugged. “I’ll risk it. We’ll see if it holds up in front of the Bureau.” He twirled the knife over his knuckles until it sat primed and ready between two fingers. He stepped forward, ready to hurl it at one of the gruff men’s backs, but then the cornered mage decided to stand up for himself.

The mage reached into the billowing sleeves of his robe and pulled free two long, skinny wands. He chanted a spell. No,  _ two _ spells in quick succession. The street filled with whitish-blue light as the mage summoned something in either hand. It was like he had reached into the sky and grabbed hold of two stars. The light in his left hand coalesced into the sturdy, round shape of a shield. The light in his right hand stretched and hardened into the long, sharp shape of a sword.

“We should probably step in before someone gets hurt,” Kun decided. He was already reaching a hand over his shoulder to the handle of his broadsword.

But Sicheng didn’t want to move. Even his hand holding the throwing knife had stilled. “Let’s watch. I want to see where this is going. My bet is on the little guy.”

“You’re a cleric. Don’t you want to  _ prevent _ bloodshed? Not observe it?”

“You must have my patron god confused with some other patron god.”

They would have continued going back and forth but the mage who had summoned the sword and shield had struck out with his magic. It was a single left-to-right movement that shouldn’t have done anything to anyone but, in less than a blink, the four men who had been ganging up on the mage had been laid out on the ground in one fell swoop.

Sicheng stashed his throwing knife away and stepped forward. “See, I had a feeling the little guy would come out on top.” Then, to the guy in question, he said, “Hey, you! Yeah, you. That’s such an unconventional way to fight.”

The guy looked up at Sicheng, at his ragged cloak and the large hood casting shadows over his face. He readied his magic sword and shield as if to swing again.

Sicheng ignored the threat. He kneeled next to one of the fallen thugs and fished around in his many pockets before finding the thug’s money bag. Sicheng pulled at the string that held the bag closed and jingled the gold pieces inside of it a bit. “Score,” he declared. He stashed the bag away beneath his own cloak before moving on to the next unconscious man. “Oh, these guys are loaded. Why are they out on the streets bullying the poor and downtrodden? Oh, wait. I think I just answered my own question.”

Kun walked up then. “You shouldn’t loot the dead.”

“They aren’t dead. Just dead asleep,” Sicheng replied. He counted the gold pieces in another looted bag. “Dinner’s on me.”

Kun sighed wearily. He had almost let his guard down but the mage swung his blue, sparkling, magical sword. With speed that shouldn’t have been possible in such heavy plate armor, Kun drew his sword and stepped forward. Metal sword met magic sword in a shower of electric light. Kun’s expression of anger melted into surprise. “You’re clearly skilled with weapons. Why not learn to swing an actual sword?”

The mage looked taken aback, as if he’d never been complimented on his skills before. “Do you see these stick arms? I can’t lift a sword!” The sleeve of his robe had shifted to reveal his forearm and Kun decided that the mage  _ was _ quite scrawny. As if he rarely had decent, full meals.

Sicheng finished looting the sleeping bodies. Not just of their gold pieces but of their small carving knives and one man’s bear tooth necklace. They were  _ pointy _ , okay? “You’re clearly well-versed in spells.” He stood up and approached Kun and the scrawny, dark-haired mage. “You could have roasted these dudes with fire. Lit them up with lightning. Froze them solid with ice. Why go through the effort of creating a sword and then swinging the sword using your actual physical strength? That’s like… twice the effort.” He lowered the hood of his cloak so that he could drape the stolen necklace over his brownish-red hair.

It was the first time he had revealed his face in its entirety and Kun found himself in genuine, actual awe of Sicheng’s prettiness. The small roundness of his brown eyes. The point of his elfin ears.

The moment didn’t last too long, though. Sicheng had already pulled the cloak back over his head, hiding his face once more. The bear-tooth necklace was actually a little frightening because, you know, bear teeth were  _ huge _ \--about as long as Kun’s palm and all--but the jewelry still seemed to fit Sicheng. Or, at least, it fit the ragged up-to-no-good suspicious back alley hoodlum vibe he was trying so desperately to pull off for a reason Kun still hadn’t grasped.

Sicheng continued, “I mean… I could probably summon a sword or two myself but, like, why would I swing it? It won’t  _ actually _ hurt anyone. Like Kun said, I’d just use an actual sword if I was going to do all that. It would use so much less energy to just smite someone, wouldn’t it? You’d only have to move a finger.”

Finally realizing that the two weirdos in front of him weren’t actual threats to him, the mage stepped back some distance. The sword and shield he had summoned flickered in and out of existence like the cold light of a star fading in the dawn sky. Then they vanished completely. The mage lowered his hands and stashed his wands back up his sleeves. “Don’t be misinformed. Summoning weapons is the only spell I’m marginally skilled at. Well, really… It’s the only spell I learned.”

“Ahh I see.” Sicheng nodded his approval. “At the temple, we learn all of the usual cleric-y spells. Healing wounds, curing poison, purifying water, removing curses, yadda yadda yadda.” He turned to look at Kun. “Are we still having dinner or what? I thought I could just go for roasted chicken and ale but now I think we need to throw some cake into the mix while we discuss this assassination job.”

The mage’s eyes went wide. “Assassination?”

“It’s a legitimate, above board business, apparently.” Sicheng gave Kun a look.

Kun ignored Sicheng. He just looked at the mage in front of him. His clothes were decently made, just in dull off-season colors. “What’s your name,” Kun asked him. He grunted with effort to hoist his huge sword back over his shoulder and into its sheath on his back.

The mage hesitated. Then, quietly, he said, “Wong Guanheng.”

“Well, Guanheng, my name is Kun. And this guy is Sicheng.”

Guanheng looked from one man to the other, still on edge, still tense and prepared to fight if he needed to.

One of the thugs on the ground groaned and stirred as he recovered from Guanheng’s earlier attack. 

“I say we get to the tavern before these guys wake up,” Kun strongly suggested. He grabbed hold of Sicheng’s elbow and began tugging him farther up the street, farther up the hill towards the Tipsy Apple Turnover. “And before they find out all of their money has been pilfered.” Then he realized something. “Why are you interested in their money? Gold pieces are round. Not pointy.”

Sicheng huffed. “Think of it as tithes and offerings to the temple.”

“It’s never going to make it to the temple,” said Kun.

“Well… I mean…” Sicheng sputtered. “How big of a percentage of money donated to the temple actually makes it to the temple? Most of it just lines the priest’s pockets.”

“Excuse me,” Guanheng called after them.

Kun and Sicheng stopped and turned.

Nervously, Guanheng closed the distance between himself and the other two. His hair was long and hung past his shoulders in gently rolling sea waves. “You’re going to the tavern, right?” Even as they all stood there, his stomach growled low and uncontrollably. Guanheng slapped a hand over his stomach but that did not silence the noise. “May I join you?”

Kun smiled. “Of course.” He motioned with his hand for Guanheng to walk at his right side since Sicheng was already standing at his left. “Three’s a nice number.”

To that, Sicheng made a noise of disapproval. “No, it’s not. It’s too round. No points to it at all.”

Regardless, the three of them began walking again. The bright orange glow of the crowded Tipsy Apple Turnover beckoning them forward from up the hill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @[CuriousCat](https://curiouscat.me/TheSwingbyJHF)


	3. Sonata No. 3 in B Minor

The Tipsy Apple Turnover was about two steps down from a _ fancy establishment _ but don’t let that stop you. It was still a good three steps above  _ a dump _ . 

The place started as a bakery roughly eight or nine years ago but then a good rainy season resulted in an overabundance of grain that year which in turn resulted in a higher than usual supply of alcohol which in turn resulted in prices for the stuff falling extremely low per barrel. Economics at their most basic! Selling ale at the bakery became such a hit that the owner stuck the word ‘Tipsy’ in front of the name and it... stuck. Even if the low prices didn’t. The tavern stood at the top of a hill right at the edge of town so, during the day when the sun was high and the sky was cloudless, a seat at one of the outdoor tables meant being able to enjoy a good meal and a hearty drink while looking down over the colorful rooftops and streets of the whole city. You could even get an uninterrupted view of the forests and rolling hills and patchwork farmlands that sat beyond the protective stone walls that circled the settlement. At night, the view was far more limited, but there was still something a bit uplifting and spiritual about seeing all of the twinkling silver stars above and all of the flickering orange lanterns below.

“Can we sit indoors, please,” Sicheng demanded the moment they were greeted by the tavern’s host. He wasn’t in the mood for spiritual and uplifting views tonight.

“Certainly. Right this way, brother,” the burly man stated. He was large and bearded and beefy and could probably lift all three of them one-handed yet he steepled his fingers and bowed to Sicheng in total reverence. When he stood to his full height again, his smile was wide and genuine. “Thank you for choosing to dine with us.” He turned to the tavern’s wide open doors to lead the trio inside.

They followed after him into the heavy noise of the tavern’s interior. The air was thick with the smell of beer, the noise of conversation and the oily slickness of a busy kitchen.

Kun gave Sicheng a look to which the cleric responded, “It’s so muggy outside. I don’t want to sweat.”

“No, I mean…” Kun lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “What was that?” Kun pressed his palms together and mimicked the tavern host’s religious bow, making sure he did it quick enough to not get caught by the host when the man turned their way to make sure they still followed behind him in the crowded place.

To this, Sicheng rolled his eyes. “He might be a member of the congregation. I don’t know.” The guy didn’t look familiar, though. So maybe it was just another case of Dejun running his mouth. See? This was why he didn’t like coming here! That was the second time tonight he’d been recognized as a cleric from one of the temples. But how? His face was hidden. He wasn’t wearing his sanctioned robes. He’d left his book of hymns and scriptures at home. He had gone through great pains to look like a battle-hardened adventurer who would rather steal and kill than pray. Sicheng leaned past Kun and put his attention on Guanheng. He whispered to the lanky kid, “Do I look like a cleric?”

Guanheng pondered the question nowhere near as long as Sicheng wished him to. “Yeah,” Guanheng stated, scratching the side of his long, wide-tipped nose. “I picked up on it at a glance. It’s quite obvious. You’re so… you know…” He made an ambiguous gesture with his hand. “Plus the earrings.”

Sicheng groaned in frustration and snatched the hood off of his head. “What’s the point of hiding under this thing if it doesn’t hide  _ me _ ?” And all of that gold he’d spent on it! All of the hours he’d sank into roughing it up to make himself look dirty and suspicious!

“Well,” Guanheng pointed, “if the earrings didn’t dangle so long…”

By then, the host had led them to the far side of the tavern. “Have a seat and one of our servers will be right with you.” He waved a hand in the general direction of what seemed to be the last available table in the building.

The table was small and round and wedged into the corner near the kitchen, forcing the men to sit so close to each other that no matter how they moved or turned, they were always accidentally kicking each other beneath the table or shoving their knees into each other’s thighs. That wouldn’t be a problem, of course, if Kun wasn’t wearing plate armor.

“Ow!” Guanheng yowled when he knocked his knee into Kun’s leg for the umpteenth time. “Good thing you’re practical and not covered in spikes.”

“Gah,” Sicheng exclaimed when he turned on his chair a little bit and swatted his hand against Kun’s armor-covered elbow. He kicked Kun in the shin for good measure.

“I can’t feel that,” Kun stated flatly, not even looking at him.

“I’ll just do it again, then,” Sicheng said gleefully. He kicked Kun’s leg again.

Kun did not visibly react. Perhaps he actually  _ could not _ feel it. 

Sicheng could, though, and he hissed in pain and slid back in his chair. “Gah!” He shook his foot until the sharp tingling in his toes dissipated. “Can you take that off? I will literally pay you to take all of that off.”

“Maybe after dinner,” Kun responded.

“Do you have some kind of emotional attachment to your armor?” Sicheng tapped Kun’s shoulder pauldrons with his finger. “What if I steal it off of you when you sleep? What if I take a mallet and smash it?”

“You’re such a violent cleric,” Guanheng thought aloud. “What about your oath of non-violence?”

“That’s what I thought,” Kun added, hooking his gaze in Sicheng’s direction.

Sicheng defended himself, “I feel ganged up on.” But he didn’t. Not really. He could take these guys in a fight. He was positive.

Kun reached out a hand and grabbed hold of Sicheng’s. If only to keep the cleric from knocking on his armor like it was someone’s front door. “We still have a lot to discuss after dinner.”

“Oh, are we still hanging out after this,” Guanheng asked cheerfully. “Where are we going next?”

“Welcome to the Tipsy Apple Turnover,” came a disgustingly sweet, songlike voice from behind them.

Sicheng couldn’t help it. His skin crawled just from the  _ sound _ . There was just something about the unrealistically high levels of optimism or something. Who needed that kind of unbound cheerfulness in their life? A shiver went down Sicheng’s spine. Slowly, he turned in his seat until he could look at the Tipsy Apple Turnover’s famous waiter. He spit out the name, “Xiao Dejun.”

Xiao Dejun grinned brightly and gave an overly theatrical bow. “In the flesh.” He stood up straight. 

Recognition twinkled in Guanheng’s eyes like stars in the night sky. “Oh! You’re Xiao Dejun! The Grand Bard! I’m such a big fan.”

Dejun flipped his hair out of his face. “Sorry. I don’t do autographs.” 

“The only thing I want you to sign is your name in blood on a contract with a soul-stealing demon,” Sicheng stated. 

Dejun laughed it off. “Your sense of humor is as dark as ever. That’s what I like about you, Sicheng. See? This is why we’re friends.” 

Sicheng dry heaved at just the  _ thought _ . 

Then Dejun recognized Kun. “Oh. I remember you. Weren’t you here just a few hours ago? Of course you were. I never forget a face.” 

Kun gave a tight-lipped borderline uncomfortable smile.

Guanheng grinned. Too star-struck to recognize the thickening tension at the table.

There was just something off-putting about Dejun. Not dangerous. Just slightly off-kilter. Like you could never be entirely sure what you were looking at. His hair was light. Lighter than Kun’s. Lighter than wheat. Even his eyes were light. Golden like beeswax. Combined with the high angle of his cheekbones and the sharpness of his nose, he was so handsome that he looked—Sicheng couldn’t find any other word to describe it— _ demonic _ . Perhaps that’s why he could never get along with the guy. Well, perhaps demon-like wasn’t the right phrasing. It was just obvious that Dejun wasn’t entirely human. But even as beautiful as he was, Dejun was no elf. Sicheng would surely smell it if the man carried the blood.

Dejun turned to Sicheng and sang out, “It’s Fifthday so you must be here for the—” He strummed a flighty little chord on the lute that he carried and then actually  _ sang _ , “—roasted chicken special.”

Sicheng frowned. 

Guanheng clapped his hands animatedly. “Bravo!”

Dejun could sing. Dance. Play instruments. Wear ridiculously feathered outfits. He could do whatever he wanted, it seemed, and Sicheng could feel his resentment burn the tiniest bit brighter.

Kun must have sensed the shift in Sicheng’s mood. He was still holding on to Sicheng’s hand from earlier so he squeezed it reassuringly.

It actually helped. Sicheng felt himself relaxing. “Yes. We’re here for the roasted chicken special and a round of ale. Or two. Or three.”

Dejun strummed another chord on his lute and then another and another. Stringing the beautiful musical tones into an upbeat folk tune. “Coming right up,” he belted out. “And I’ve got quite the gossip for you. You aren’t going to believe what I heard tonight.” The flamboyantly dressed bard strolled away with an unnecessary amount of swivel in his hips, carrying his music along with him.

“Wow,” Guanheng gasped out. “He just lights up the whole room with his star power, doesn’t he?”

“I’ll light him up,” Sicheng mumbled. “A little bit of fire—”

“You are not going to set him on fire,” Kun cut in, as if he knew what Sicheng was about to suggest.

Sicheng yanked his hand free of Kun’s grip. “Take your eyes off of me for too long and who knows what will happen.”

“Don’t worry,” replied Kun. “I have absolutely no intentions of letting you out of my sight.”


	4. Dangerous Maneuvers

“Not letting me out of your sight?” Sicheng responded. “Sounds like a threat. Do I need to defend myself?” He reached a hand beneath his cloak for one of his pointy collectibles. 

“It’s not a threat,” Kun stated. He reached out a hand and gripped Sicheng by the wrist to stop him from drawing a weapon in the middle of a crowded tavern. “I’m just going to take it upon myself to keep you from making awful decisions.”

Sicheng cried out, “Aww, I  _ love _ making awful decisions.”

“I’ve got my work cut out for me,” said Kun.

Guanheng chuckled. “You’re really volunteering for something like that? I’d rather watch tree sap dry.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” said Sicheng. But he was barely paying attention to them now. He twisted around in his chair so that he could watch Dejun galavant about. That outfit had way too many feathers! Sicheng thought the guy looked like a bird.

“Sicheng,” Kun said politely. He pulled on Sicheng’s wrist in hopes of getting the cleric’s attention again. “About that job. It’s a bit too late to leave town tonight so I will set out in the morning. Is that alright with you?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Sicheng peeled Kun’s fingers off of his wrist and used the sleeve of his cloak to wipe away the damp handprint the assassin had left on his skin. He barely looked in Kun’s direction, keeping his eyes focused on the bard.

Even though the man was clear on the other side of the tavern, and even though the place was crowded and noisy, Sicheng could still hear Dejun’s singing and lute playing. The younger man was quite famous around town and for good reason. His voice was stunning and he could play complicated melodies on his lute with what appeared to be very little effort. The mesmerized guests in the tavern swayed from side to side and clapped to the beat of his tune as Dejun nailed a high note while doing an absolutely unnecessary pirouette with a little kick at the end.

Sicheng felt a pang in his chest. He had to ask one very important question. “Can we switch targets here?” He gave Kun a light shove. “Can you slice Xiao Dejun in half instead? You won’t even have to leave town. You can get the rest of your money before dessert is served.”

Kun hesitated just long enough to make it seem like he was genuinely considering the offer. But then, “No,” he stated firmly. “Switching targets is an entirely new job. You’d have to pay me all over again.”

Not needing to be told twice, Sicheng immediately grabbed one of the money bags he’d stolen and began counting out the required number of gold pieces.

Kun looked appalled. “Sicheng!” 

“What? I’m trying to pay you. I’ll even throw in a generous tip.”

“I’m not going after your friend!”

“We’re not friends!” Sicheng shoved the pile of gold pieces across the table towards Kun. “Are you going to do the job or not?”

“I won’t.” Kun fumed but he decided to switch gears. “Not right now.” He pulled the scroll from beneath one of the sections of his armor and unfurled it. “I will do it once I succeed with the original job.” If anything, he was going to attempt to get Sicheng to forget such a deal.

“And you better not let me forget,” Sicheng said, pointing, as if reading Kun’s mind. 

Guanheng rolled up the sleeves of his mage robes and propped his bony elbows up on the table. “You aren’t really going to assassinate a celebrity are you?”

“I’d prefer not to,” Kun explained. “I like to stick to typical targets like corrupt politicians and cheating husbands.” 

Sicheng was still trying to push the currency towards Kun. “Don’t your kind go where the money tells you? Put that giant sword of yours to good use and  _ cleave him in half _ !” He not so subtly jerked a thumb over his shoulder in Dejun’s direction.

Guanheng followed Sicheng’s impassioned digit pointing but had the exact opposite reaction Sicheng needed from him. Guanheng sighed dreamily. His cheeks flushed with a rosy touch of color. “Xiao Dejun is such a star. I’d do anything to see him perform a show. There’s this one song he has about walking on the moon. It’s gorgeous. Have you heard it?”

“I might recognize it if you hum a few bars,” Kun told him.

Guanheng sang a line or two of the song. The lyrics full of mystery and allure. His voice was lower, raspier and far less trained than Dejun’s, but he could still carry a tune in a bucket. Even if it had a hole in it.

Kun clapped his hands together in recognition. “I have heard that. It’s a bit of a drinking song within the rogue’s guild. Probably because there aren’t a lot of syllables to butcher.”

Sicheng rolled his eyes. “No. I can’t say I’m familiar with such evil, heinous, secular nonsense.” He knew the song word for word because that’s just how often he’d heard it around town.

While Sicheng glared daggers at Dejun’s tall, narrow frame, Guanheng continued to admire the man. Hearts and stars practically twinkled in his eyes. “I just realized something. He spoke words to me! He looked at me and  _ saw _ me.” Guanheng grinned from ear to ear, his teeth gleaming in the hot, orange light of the lantern above their heads.

“He’s not all that big of a deal,” Sicheng sat his chin on his upturned palm and frowned with his lip poked out like a child.

On the other side of the tavern, Dejun hit a high falsetto with ease as his song came to an end. Half the room clapped and whistled and the bard performed a sweeping bow before prancing through the wooden doors to the back room and out of sight.

Sicheng grumbled, “Show off. He better not screw up our order.”

“My, you’re cranky,” Kun pointed out, but the tiniest little smile crept across his face.

“Can it, you,” Sicheng warned him. “Or I’ll cast a fire spell on that metal armor you’re wearing and roast you alive before our meal gets here.”

“Do you need a hug?” Guanheng asked seriously. He was already standing up and circling around Kun’s chair towards Sicheng. “I feel like you need a hug.”

“Don’t hug-” Sicheng began, but the rest of his threat melted away when Guanheng stooped down and wrapped his arms around Sicheng’s shoulders. “Don’t…” Sicheng tried again, but the sharp edge had left his voice. Guanheng actually gave decent, sturdy hugs despite the stick quality of his arms.

Sicheng found himself relaxing and calming down. Perhaps it was because Guanheng’s thick mage robes were soft and warm to the touch. Or maybe it had something to do with how Guanheng nuzzled his face into Sicheng’s hair, bringing the scent of stewed apples to Sicheng’s nose.

Or something.

Not wanting to be left out, Kun reached out a gloved hand and scritched Sicheng under the chin like he was one of the numerous stray cats that roamed the streets.

Under any other circumstances, Sicheng would have used one of his many knives to remove the offending hand but…

“See,” Guanheng’s voice cut into Sicheng’s blurry-edged thoughts. “You needed a hug.”


	5. The Way Is Always The Same

It took longer than Sicheng would have ever guessed to aid Kun out of the many pieces of his plate armor.

Not just because the leather straps didn’t make much sense and the metal was heavy and cumbersome and hard to get his hands around but also because Guanheng did not help _ at all _. (“Do you see these stick arms,” he’d exclaimed before sitting down and not moving another muscle.) It didn’t make matters any easier that Kun himself was terribly inebriated and gave the absolute worst instructions. (“Righty tighty, lefty loosey.”)

Sicheng scowled. “Burp in my face one more time and--”

“I’m so _ drunk _,” Kun cried out. “Next round’s on me!”

“We left the tavern an hour ago, Kun,” Guanheng gently told him.

“What?” Kun looked around, his face beet red and his eyes bloodshot. “Really?”

“You were the one who suggested we go drinking,” Sicheng groaned, chucking another piece of Kun’s leg armor into the corner of the room, “yet you were the first one to climb on the table and try to dance. That’s just sad.”

“We had…” Kun hiccuped, “_four_ rounds.”

Sicheng scoffed. “But I didn’t try to climb on top of the table and dance.”

Guanheng sighed. “I don’t blame him. Xiao Dejun--”

“We don’t speak that name here.”

“The bard at the tavern,” Guanheng corrected himself, “played a very catchy song. I would have started dancing myself if I wasn’t so worried Kun would fall on his head.”

“I had a helmet on,” Kun protested loudly and then shut his eyes and made a noise suspiciously similar to a snore.

After enjoying their meal at The Tipsy Apple Turnover, Sicheng had to drag Kun down the cobblestone streets to the inn and _ then _ had to haul him up two flights of stairs to the room he’d rented for the man. All by himself because, of course, Guanheng could not--or would not--be bothered to do any lifting. Heavy or otherwise.

Sicheng pressed the sleeve of his cloak to the corner of Kun’s mouth to wipe up a bit of Kun’s drool.

“This is the kind of behavior I expected out of a cleric,” Guanheng mused, stroking his nonexistent beard. “Selflessly helping the downtrodden and defenseless. It warms my heart.”

“You won’t have a heart if you keep making fun of me.” Sicheng made a vague motion with his hand in the general direction of the knives and sharp things strapped to his chest.

Guanheng shifted ever so slightly in his chair. “Do you need another hug?”

Yes. “No,” Sicheng grunted. “Don’t even think about it.” He loosened another leather strap and took off one more piece of Kun’s armor. Generally, armor wasn’t pointy enough to attract Sicheng’s attention, but he could still appreciate the craftsmanship of the metal Kun wore. The design was simple and utilitarian and carried very little flair or personality, but the work that went into it was topnotch. If Sicheng didn’t know any better, he would have thought it was Yuta’s brilliant handiwork. He said, “Now that the lightweight is safely out of the way, I wouldn’t mind going for another round.”

Guanheng had something to say. “Your body is supposed to be a temple for your patron god. How are you a better drinker than either of us?” He could hold his liquor better than Kun, but he was still slurring his words, all glassy-eyed and loud. There was a slim chance he could stand up off of the chair without losing his footing. “How can you still be up for drinking at all?”

“Must be genetic.” Sicheng managed to pry the last piece of leg armor off of Kun’s calf. He tossed it aside. The sharp sound of the metal hitting the floor startled Kun out of his half-sleep. Sicheng continued, “But also, my patron god is the deity of the harvest.”

“What does that have to do with anything,” Guanheng questioned, pressing a finger to his temple like he was fighting off a headache.

“It just means that she’s fine with me… harvesting gold pieces off thugs on the street. Or… harvesting the fuzzies from a few glasses of hard liquor.”

Guanheng raised an eyebrow. He didn’t buy it for a second.

Neither did Kun. “You’re.... You’re not a good cleric,” he drunkenly slurred. “You’re a… _ bad _ cleric.” He was laid out across the room’s hardwood floor. His light brown, sweat-damp hair stuck to his forehead and he curled and uncurled his bare toes in the mild chill of the room. He looked completely different with no armor. In nothing but a plain linen tunic and tight trousers, he seemed small and fragile. Surprisingly muscular, yes, with more chest hair than Sicheng was expecting, but Kun was still fragile in a way. Vulnerable. Sweet. Charming.

“Hmm. I’d go one step further than bad and just say he’s a terrible cleric,” said Guanheng. “Really, we should tell your priest.”

“Quiet, you,” Sicheng scolded. He turned his attention to Kun. “I took off all of your armor so hurry up and crawl in bed so that we can go.”

“Go?” Guanheng repeated. He tilted his head to the side in surprise. “Go where? I thought you said we were done for tonight.”

“No, I said _ he _ is done for tonight.” Sicheng poked Kun in the chest.

Kun giggled like he’d just been tickled. He reached out a hand to try and grab Sicheng’s finger but missed it by a hand’s width.

“So where are we going,” asked Guanheng.

“I was going to try to find another tavern. Maybe something farther into the city.”

“We’re just going to leave him here?”

“Absolutely.”

“What if he needs help?”

“That’s what the staff at the inn is for.”

“What if he needs _ our _ help,” Guanheng implored.

“It’ll have to wait until tomorrow, then,” replied Sicheng. He stood up off of the floor and patted his pockets to make sure he had everything he’d brought with him. He did. Sicheng started towards the door.

“We can’t just _ leave _,” insisted Guanheng. He looked personally offended.

“Why not? The room is paid for. There’s no reason for us to stay.”

Guanheng tried again. Less emphatically this time. “We can’t just leave him on the floor.”

Tired of being discussed like he wasn’t in the room, Kun moaned, “I can hear you two.”

“No one was trying to keep things secret from you.” Sicheng stooped down to pick up the scroll with the details of the assassination job on it. Then he pressed the parchment into Kun’s clammy, sweaty hand. “Don’t forget. You said you’d set out in the morning. Hangover or not. You won’t get the rest of your money until you finish the job.”

Kun swatted the scroll away and grabbed Sicheng by the wrist instead. “Stay with me.”

What an odd request. “What? You can’t read or something?”

“No. I mean, yes. I can read, but…” Kun squeezed Sicheng’s wrist tightly. He did not want to let go. “Tonight’s the most fun I’ve had in awhile. I don’t want tonight to end.”

“Do you know how much of a sweat I worked up carrying you up the stairs,” Sicheng groused. “Trust me. You’re the only one having fun.” 

Kun rolled over the slightest bit and attempted to reach for Guanheng’s wrist. This time, he missed because Guanheng was clear on the other side of the room. “Both of you stay,” he choked out.

Sicheng pried his wrist free of Kun’s grasp and once again pressed the scroll into Kun’s hand. “How about this? If you successfully assassinate the target, we’ll go for drinks again.” He started to stand.

A loud, voracious knocking came from the other side of the room’s door.

Since Sicheng was about to leave anyway, he approached the door and unlocked it. Before he could even swing it open, however, whoever was on the other side shoved it open with so much sudden speed that the wood bounced off Sicheng’s forehead and sent him staggering backwards.

Xiao Dejun strutted into the room. “Darlings,” he sang out. “There you are! You left before I could tell you all of the juicy gossip.”

Sicheng rubbed at his forehead. “Please tell me I’m drunk,” he muttered. “Please tell me I’m halfway to a concussion and He Who Shall Not Be Named is not standing right next to me.” He eased the door shut.

“You are drunk,” Guanheng said unhelpfully, “and you’re halfway to a concussion and the biggest celebrity of our time is not standing right next to you.”

“I should have left when I had the chance,” said Sicheng. Even one extra minute would have had him down the stairs and out the door by now.

Dejun propped his hands on his hips. “And before you ask how I found you three, a shady man in a cloak dragging a knight in full armor across the street is a story that stands out so much that I can’t even call it a rumor.” 

At this, Sicheng whirled away from the door to look at his dastardly, feather-adorned sworn enemy. “People think I’m shady?” His eyes lit up in excitement. “People think I’m suspicious?” It was the best news he’d ever heard. 

Dejun nearly tripped over Kun sprawled out on the floor but, with dancer-like grace, he turned the clumsy movement into a rather unorthodox pose like he was waiting to be sketched by an artist. “You three won’t believe what ridiculous news I heard,” Dejun trilled, rolling his r’s. He struck a far more outrageous pose and raised his voice as if he weren’t already shouting. “Someone paid big money to hire an assassin and have the baron killed!”

Sicheng felt like he’d been turned to stone. If he was holding something, he would have dropped it. If he was drinking something, he would have spit it out. “What a silly rumor.” He forced a laugh. “Who would spend an exorbitant amount of gold to have a late-night meeting in a dark alley to discuss the intricate details of killing someone as important as the baron? I mean--” He forced another laugh. “--who would _ do _ that?”

Guanheng slowly, slowly, slowly turned around in his chair until he was looking up at Sicheng, his eyes wide with recognition.

Dejun, only concerned about telling the story and nothing else, stretched out a leg and hit a third absurd pose.

Kun let out a low, slurred chuckle. “Hey! That’s-" He stopped to hiccup. "That's me. That rumor is about me!” A few moments ago, he didn’t have the mental capacity to grab Sicheng’s finger when it was right in front of him. Now, he had the mental capacity to sit up, undo the knot of twine holding the scroll in place, unfurl the parchment and point to the detailed message scribbled across its surface. “I am the assassin hired to kill the baron!” He pointed a finger in Sicheng’s direction. “And he is the one who hired me!”


	6. Polytheism

There were many patron gods. Hundreds, even. 

Some were favored by the humans, like the goddess of creation or the god of war or the god of death.

Some were favored by the elves, like the god of time and the god of livestock, the goddess of storytelling.

But there were numerous other gods.

The goddess of the rain. God of the sea. God of all lakes. Goddess of the rivers. (No relation.) And then there were the twins: god of the hearth and god of the forge. Both of them quite hot. There was the goddess of winter, the god of the moon, the god of spring’s first blossoms. The god of wine. The god of love and lovemaking. The goddess of all mothers. The goddess of gift-giving. The god of lightning. 

Then there were the lesser known gods. Goddess of the hunt, goddess of the harvest, goddess of music and song.

They didn’t always walk the earth but their presence was always felt.

That could be seen around town. In the paintings that hung in homes or in the murals painted on walls. Every god had an altar, big or small, but not every god had a temple. And, even among the gods who had a temple, even fewer had a priest and a party of clerics.

Sicheng was quite lucky to not only be a member of a temple but to consider himself favorably blessed by the god he served.

Although, in that moment, standing in the middle of the crowded room at the inn, Sicheng wished that he served a different god.

Perhaps the god of war or the goddess of revenge or something. He wished he was a cleric that, you know, didn’t have to swear an oath of non-violence because, gracious, all he wanted to do was commit violence.

“Kun,” he screamed at the top of his lungs, “why would you  _ say _ that?”

Kun had the nerve, the gumption, the audacity, the  _ gall _ , to raise a finger to his lips and shush Sicheng. “We’re supposed to keep this a secret!”

“We are,” Sicheng agreed, “but you’re the one who ran your mouth!”

Xiao Dejun twirled and twirled and then struck another pose. “They don’t call me the best informant in the city for no reason.”

Tipsy, Guanheng stood up and then wobbled to and fro before regaining his balance. “How do you even know that? We haven’t told anyone.”

“I don’t name my sources,” Dejun announced. He finally seemed to grow bored of spinning and posing and being ridiculous. He sat down on the edge of the bed with surprisingly few theatrics. “However, I have an ex-lover who has a sister who has a friend who knows a guy at the bar they work at whose second cousin used to be the literature teacher of the grunt who runs errands for the blacksmith who makes the weapons for the rogue’s guild. That’s how I found out.”

“Through the grapevine,” Kun hiccuped.

Sicheng frowned. “If that many people know about our plan, certainly word has gotten back to the baron.”

Dejun shrugged. “I only collect rumors. I don’t spread them.”

But that didn’t mean other people lived by such a code.

“That means you should give up on your silly plan,” Guanheng strongly suggested. He tugged at the sleeve of Sicheng’s cloak imploringly. His large, round eyes caught the warm, orange lantern light in the room and heightened the rosiness of his drunk-red cheeks. “We can stop before you get into trouble.”

“I can’t give up. I’ve already paid him.” Sicheng pointed to Kun.

Dejun crossed one leg over the other at the knee. “Good news is, I don’t think any less of you as a person upon finding out such news.” He uncrossed his legs only to cross them again but the other way around. “Besides, I didn’t know any names or details until this guy here blurted out everything.” He waved a hand in Kun’s direction. “So as long as you don’t go telling everyone what you’re up to, I feel like you will still be successful in your endeavors.”

This didn’t please Guanheng. He let go of Sicheng’s cloak only to wrap his arms around the cleric’s narrow waist as if to hold him still, hold him in place as if to keep him from running off into the night and doing unsavory things. “You’ll be in deep trouble if you get caught. You’ll bring shame upon your temple. Your goddess will shun you.”

Sicheng tensed. Not because of Guanheng’s words but because of his  _ breath _ . Too hot. Too sticky. Still carrying the sour-sweetness of the alcohol he drank.

Too close.

Sicheng peeled himself free of Guanheng’s stick arms (surprisingly difficult to do despite their stick quality) and took a few steps back to put some distance between himself and the younger man. “I have my reasons to do this, okay,” he said sharply. “I’ve been saving up the gold for months. Maybe even a year. I finally got a hold of enough to attract the attention of the rogue’s guild and when I ask for this huge, monumental thing and they take all the money I saved, they don’t even send me the King of Stealth like I requested.” He turned and glared at Kun, who still writhed and moaned from his position on the floor. “They send his son.” 

Sensing he was being talked about, Kun fixed his eyes on Sicheng. “Hey,” he shouted, “I told you before that I’m skilled. I’m competent. I can do the job. I promise, Sicheng.” He must have been serious because not once did he slur his syllables or drunkenly laugh or hiccup.

Dejun wiped imaginary dirt off of the feathery shoulder of his outfit. “I admire anyone who possesses such conviction in today’s economy.”

Guanheng attempted to be mediator. “Really, we should stop this. It’s a silly plan.”

“Silly?” Sicheng snapped. Going after the baron wasn’t  _ silly _ . “It’s not like I’m doing all of this for fun. It’s not like I got bored and decided to hire a top-tier assassin. I have a reason!” Emotion rose up in him. Bitter and foul-tasting and making him bite the inside of his cheek to hold off the hot, angry tears bubbling in the corners of his eyes. He hid the watery sparkle in his eyes by pulling the hood of his cloak up over his head, casting the majority of his face in shadow. “I’ve waited months and months for this day. I won’t let you stop me. I won’t let anyone else mess it up for me.” The baron had taken nearly everything from him. Destroyed the last few pieces of the life Sicheng had once tried to live. All in the name of  _ profit _ . Sicheng continued, “Don’t try to keep me from doing this, Guanheng.” Frustrated, Sicheng rushed up to the room’s door and flung it open. He stepped out into the dimly-lit hall beyond the door. His dark-colored cloak made him blend into the black shadows between the flickering lamps almost instantly. “I will do it myself if I have to.”

And then he was gone.


	7. Tragic Backstory TM

The body was a temple and Dong Sicheng liked to protect his. The easiest way to do it? With his pointy words, with his pointy mood and pointy behavior, and most obviously and definitely most effectively, with his large collection of pointy things strapped to his chest or belted around his waist. Yeah. Pointy things were good at protecting and Sicheng wanted to stay nice and safe. It was a _ precautionary measure _ , he thought. Because, in his experience, you never had to pay much mind to the people outside of your temple. Strangers couldn’t do much wrong from the cold, unfriendly side of the door. Well, they couldn’t do much besides make a lot of unnecessary but easily ignorable noise. It was the people you _ let in _ that you had to fear. The ones who knew the way inside. Who knew the trick to jiggle the door handle and then use a bit of shoulder strength. The ones who knew which chair was your favorite. And knew the order of all of the rooms in the temple and knew all of the secrets those rooms held. It was the people you let claim a seat inside your heart that could hurt you the most.

Sicheng had trusted others once. He wasn’t sure he could do so again. Not out of the kindness of his heart anyway.

Not after what the baron did to his family. Not after what the baron did to the altar of the god Sicheng _ used _ to serve.

Sicheng didn’t want to go through that a second time.

That’s why he kept the doors to his ‘temple’ shut tight. He kept everyone out, even when his faith and duty demanded he let everyone in. It was the one thing he thought he was good at, so how did he wind up with so many people pressing close to him, even with all of his pointy bits?

That lousy gossip Xiao Dejun never took his anger and insults seriously. The bard laughed at them like they were jokes and still called Sicheng his _ friend _no matter how many times Sicheng had verbally or physically pushed him away. Well… Xiao Dejun wasn’t all that smart. Yes. That had to be the reason. If it wasn’t something he could toss over a cooktop and fry, if it wasn’t something he could pluck the strings of his lute and sing about, the bard wasn’t all too interested in it. Yet Dejun always seemed to be interested in Sicheng, even if the bard had never tossed him over a cooktop to fry him or sang a song about him.

Weird.

And even weirder was Qian Kun. The way he looked at Sicheng like the cleric carried the sun across the sky. The way he begged Sicheng to stay at his side, telling Sicheng that he’s _ fun _ to be around. (Pssh.) And Guanheng… That poor, stupid, brave, handsome, silly boy saw all of Sicheng’s prickliness, all of his _ pointiness _, and hugged him tight anyway.

What in the world was Sicheng going to do?

Oh yeah.

Run.

And run fast.

Down the inn’s hallway. Past the flickering lanterns. Past the cheap wooden doors. Down the stairs and out into the hot, muggy summer night.

Sicheng ran and ran until sweat poured from his forehead. Until his vision got just a tad blurry around the edges from overexertion. Until his lungs burned and he lost the feeling in his hands.

And then he ran just a tad bit farther until he was at the very edge of town, breathless. Cold sweat in his eyes and hot tears on his face. Legs sore. Knees weak. Feet swollen. 

It took him several seconds to catch his breath and even longer to take notice of the place he’d instinctively run to. The one _ person _ he’d instinctively run to.

Sicheng raised a fist and knocked on the big, wooden door of Yuta’s house.


	8. The Sparrow Flies Against The Wind

There are legends that tell of a mighty dragon with wings so long that they reach up to the clouds and scales so large that they could be mountains. The legends say she made herself a home among the craggy rocks in the dead lands beyond the forest. Those legends also say that such a ferocious dragon is kept away from town by the rhythmic pounding of Yuta’s trusty hammer as he strikes and strikes and strikes at red-hot metal, forging magnificent weapons and grand armor. Yuta’s skill is so high and his might is so great that just the sound of him working keeps such a predator at bay.

...according to the legend.

Though Sicheng is pretty sure he’s been acquainted with Yuta long enough to know that the man enjoys his sleep way too much to be the only person responsible for keeping giant dragons out of town.

Perhaps that’s why it’s just a legend.

Sicheng whispered, “Please be at home,” as he stood out in the quiet countryside, panting and sweating and listening. There was no rhythmic pounding of a blacksmith’s hammer coming from the workshop out back so Sicheng started up his own rhythmic pounding with his left fist on Yuta’s front door.

_ Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!  _ And then, when Sicheng lost his strength, a much quieter  _ Tat tat tat _ .

At long last, Sicheng heard the door unlatch from the other side. He watched as the doorknob turned. As the door slowly creaked open, revealing a dusk-colored silhouette lit up from behind by the warm fire of a lamp. The door opened a touch more and, finally, moonlight touched Yuta’s face.

Sicheng exhaled, “Yu-”

But he could not get the second syllable out of his mouth.

A long-fingered hand lashed out from the shadows of the doorway and gripped Sicheng by his throat and squeezed.  _ Tight _ . Sicheng gasped for air. Choked. Tried to scream. The more he struggled, the harder Yuta dug his fingers into Sicheng’s neck.

“Who are you?” Yuta bellowed angrily. “And what do you want from me?”

“Yu-” Sicheng spat out. Literally spat. Saliva flew from his mouth as he struggled to suck air into his lungs, as he fought to keep breathing. He was already exhausted from running such a distance so he barely had the strength remaining to resist. His swats at Yuta’s arm and chest did little to dissuade the taller, bulkier man from attacking him.

But then… “Sicheng?” Yuta’s eyes went wide. He loosened his hold on Sicheng’s throat. “Sicheng!”

In their struggle, the hood of the cloak Sicheng wore had slipped from off of his head.

“Sicheng,” Yuta screamed in worry. He let go of his friend, who immediately dropped to his knees and dry heaved. “What on earth are you doing walking around at this hour dressed like you’re up to no good?”

Oddly enough, those words made Sicheng smile. So he did look properly shady and suspicious? Sicheng wiped his spit-damp mouth with the hem of his cloak and looked up at his dear old friend. He tried to play it cool and gave his brightest grin. “Did I wake you?”

“Perhaps.” Yuta’s voice was stern but not unfriendly. “Need a hand?” He stooped down and offered one to help Sicheng off of the ground.

Sicheng didn’t take it. In fact, he swatted it away. “The ground is quite comfortable, thank you.” He made no move to stand up on his own.

Yuta stood up straight again. “Are you on the run?” He waved a hand in the direction of Sicheng’s outfit.

“It’s called a disguise,” Sicheng snapped. “I’m dressed like this so I won’t attract attention.”

“Everywhere you go, you always attract attention,” Yuta contradicted him. The handsomeness of his face was offset a bit by the rough, leathery quality of his skin. The unwashed, matted quality of his shoulder-length, blue-silver hair. The side effects of a man who lived alone and devoted his days to his craft. Yuta’s muscles were heavily sculpted after years and years of swinging his hammer and lifting his heavy equipment. “Why do you need to look so shady?”

“Because I did something shady. I hired an assassin.”

Yuta’s expression shifted. The smile that had slowly been crawling across his face vanished in a blink, leaving behind something a tad bit unreadable. Something that existed in the gray space between extreme anger and extreme sadness. “I can’t believe this,” he muttered. “You really did this.” Then his expression changed again. Softened. Brightened. “You’re finally getting our revenge.” He smiled. Wide. Showing off all of his teeth.

Sicheng smiled as well. This was the reaction he needed! Not Xiao Dejun’s maddening indifference. Not Guanheng’s passionate protests. Yuta was  _ on his side _ . And it felt good. “He will pay.” 

“But that’s not why you’re here tonight, is it,” Yuta asked. “If this were really about the baron, you wouldn’t come all this way unless you were carrying his head in a bag.” 

“True,” Sicheng agreed. “I didn’t come here because of that.” He came here to get away from the sparkle in Kun’s eyes whenever the two of them made eye contact. He came here to get away from Guanheng’s warm, comfortable hands that always seemed to find the best places to hold him. Sicheng stared at a point slightly to the left of Yuta’s face, dreaming. Fearing. “I came here about something far more terrifying.”

Yuta wore a thin cotton shirt and a pair of undergarments, both of them carried the scent of a bad night sweat. Perhaps Yuta had a nightmare, Sicheng thought, based on how long it took the man to fully relax. Unclench his fists. Slump his shoulders. “Sicheng…” The man wiped the grit of sleep from his eyes and asked, wary, “What brings you here?”

Sicheng didn’t answer immediately. He took a moment to breathe in and then breathe in a little harder and a little  _ harder _ until he could finally get a good whiff of Yuta’s scent: smoke and wood and the earth after the rain but also… elf. Sicheng exhaled. Elves could recognize other elves just by smell. That’s how strong their lineage blazed in their veins. Physical elven features such as their long ears could be covered by a head of shaggy, unkempt hair, but it was impossible to truly hide a smell. Sicheng got up to his feet and dusted himself off. “I’m in a bit of a dilemma.”

“Another one,” Yuta asked. He rolled his eyes. “I should have known.” He stepped back from the center of the doorway and allowed Sicheng to enter his home.

Sicheng kicked the dirt off of his boots before stepping across the threshold.

At first glance, Yuta’s abode was surprisingly humble considering his level of fame. (He had  _ legends _ about him!) But upon closer inspection, one only needed to glance at the craftsmanship of the furniture to know that Yuta had built nearly everything in the house himself. The furniture. The machinery. Everything carried the signature of Yuta’s specific style.

Yuta grabbed a glass pitcher full of clear, cool water from the kitchen and led Sicheng to the living room.

The two elves sat on opposite ends of the couch in front of the unlit hearth. The windows were thrown open, allowing in the humidity of the summer night and filling the room with moonlight and cricket song.

Yuta offered Sicheng a mug of water (and then a second one and then a third) before Sicheng felt rehydrated enough to speak.

“Something terrible has happened,” Sicheng bemoaned.

Yuta poured his friend a fourth mug of water. “What is it, Sicheng? Does it have something to do with the temple?”

“No, not this time. This is something bigger. Something worse.”

“Something worse… Wait. Does this have anything to do with Xiao Dejun?”

Sicheng hesitated for a second. “No. Worse than him.”

“Worse than that?” Now Yuta was truly concerned. He scooted closer to Sicheng so he could grip Sicheng’s knee and give him a reassuring squeeze.

Shaking, Sicheng raised the mug to his lips and barely managed to take a sip without spilling any water on himself.

“Sicheng, what is it? What happened?” Yuta asked, his eyes wide with fright. “Do I need to get my hammer?”

“Yes. If you could,” Sicheng suggested.

Yuta stood up. He ran a hand through his tangled silver hair and the action revealed his long, pointed ears. “This must be serious.”

“It’s the most serious thing to ever happen to me.” Sicheng managed to take another long swig of water but, not trusting the numbness creeping into his fingers, he sat the mug down on the fine, wooden table. He looked up at Yuta who had gotten halfway across the room. “Yuta… I think I might be falling in love.”


	9. It Usually Works

“You’re falling in love?” Yuta screeched out those words like they hurt him, his eyes nearly bulging. “Are you  _ sure _ ?”

Sicheng nodded. Slowly. He hadn’t been sure until a handful of minutes ago, when he realized that he missed Kun’s stupid nagging and Guanheng’s impossible stubbornness. “They’ve got my heart in knots.” And if he wasn’t always so careful, if he didn’t always keep his doors shut tight, if he wasn’t so  _ prickly _ , he wouldn’t have noticed such softness creeping in on him until it was far too late. 

Fortunately, he saw the signs coming. Being able to identify them at a distance would prevent them from surprising him later.

That didn’t mean he could stop it though.

“That’s terrifying,” mumbled Yuta, as if reading Sicheng’s mind. “And goes against everything we promised.” He made a hand movement, indicating himself and Sicheng.

The elves. 

As a race, there had been more of them, at one point. Even a year ago, there had been so many more. A decade or two in the past, the forest used to _ belong _ to them.

Then the baron and his powerful goons came along.

And perhaps they could have lived side by side quietly, though not peacefully, if the baron hadn’t made the town expand its borders. Taking torches to the trees and trampling the altars of the elven gods underfoot in the process.

Yuta narrowed his eyes. “Didn’t you swear an oath, Sicheng?”

Not the one of non-violence to Sicheng’s patron god, but an oath of revenge. And not just any old oath but a promise made on the ancient blood that coursed through Sicheng’s veins. Such a promise was not one to take lightly. The anger he swore to carry with him that day couldn’t…  _ shouldn’t _ be set aside and forgotten due to minor, lesser emotions like love. Sicheng defended himself, “But I’m making moves--”

“The baron isn’t dead yet,” Yuta reminded him. “Don’t celebrate too early.”

Sicheng squeezed his eyes shut. If he could just shove his emotions deep down inside him somewhere…

But he couldn’t.

He missed the way Kun smiled at him before saying something irritating. He missed the brazen way Guanheng slid past all of his defenses and made himself at home.

Sicheng opened his eyes. Perhaps he was closer to being drunk than he assumed.

Four rounds at the tavern  _ was _ quite a lot.

“Maybe I’ll regret saying this in the morning when the sun shines bright on common sense, but… I can’t help the way I feel.” And the way he felt was unmistakable. Like he was alive for the very first time in years. Since he first swore the oath. He had tried to keep himself hidden for so long. He had tried to blend in to the background, attend temple services and quietly live his life to avoid the baron’s ire. Yet Kun paid so much attention to him and Guanheng saw right through the act down to the scared, vulnerable man Sicheng was trying so hard to no longer be. The elf muttered, “I’m really falling in love.”

Yuta’s mouth fell open in absolute horror, as if Sicheng had just admitted to something truly heinous. “With who?” Then he answered his own question. “With Xiao Dejun?”

It was like being slapped across the face! “No. Never.”

Yuta tensed. “With… me?”

Sicheng stared across the expanse of the couch at him. “Yuta, have you lost it?”

“Then who?” Yuta’s anger had melted away to genuine curiosity. “Tell me.”

It was like coming to his senses. It was like snapping out of the control of a spell. Sicheng jumped up off the couch.

What was he  _ thinking _ ? 

Kun kept delaying and delaying the assasination plans. First with the walk and then with saving Guanheng and then with dinner and getting drunk and passing out at the inn. Guanheng was also a large obstacle standing in Sicheng’s path. He openly disagreed with Sicheng’s revenge plans and had kept telling him to put a stop to it since he found out.

Sicheng couldn’t fall in love with the very people that would keep him from achieving his bloody, violent dreams.

He was serious when he said he would go after the baron himself if he had to.

  
“I’ve fallen in love not just with pointy things,” he said, “but _ long _ and pointy things.” He fixed his gaze on Yuta before pulling back the hem of his cloak and showing off his glinting collection of daggers and small knives. “I think I want to try using a sword.”


	10. The Distance Between Two Points

Yuta, as no-nonsense as he could be, was relatively easy to fool. Probably because he was such a recluse and took all of his social interactions at face value. 

His eyes went wide. “Oh? You love swords? Well, that’s great, then! I love swords too. I have made a few swords. Only a few, though.” About three dozen of them were hanging on the wall right across from where he was sitting. He leaped up off the couch and raced towards his handmade collection. “This one’s sharp enough to cut fire,” Yuta explained, waving a hand towards a sword with a highly decorated hilt and pommel. “Do you know how sharp something has to be to cut  _ fire _ ? This is some of my best work.” Then he turned around to look at Sicheng. “On second thought, let’s not start you off with that one.” He moved towards the next sword hanging on the wall. “How about something like this? It’s a bit basic looking but I took it out past the dead lands to get it blessed by a monk. Now it is quite effective against the undead. You plan on hunting liches anytime soon? No?  _ Really _ ? Well, how about this one…” Yuta touched his long-fingered hand to the narrow blade of a rapier. Then he side-stepped to the broadsword hanging next to it. “This one suits you. I remember the first time I went out on an adventure with this thing. Tried to hack into a slime that I thought would be pretty easy to beat only to discover that its viscous little body was made up of metal-corroding acid. What are the chances? I think the damage to the weapon is pretty light, though. All things considered.” It was missing a good quarter of its length and its sharp bits had noticeably dulled.

Sicheng rolled his eyes. “That one doesn’t even have a pointy end. You may as well hold it by the blade and use the guard like its a hammer.” That would be silly, but...

“Right. Right.” Yuta nodded. He turned back to the wall of weapons and explained the story behind another sword. “I mixed some minotaur blood into the steel of this one. Bang it against a wall and the vibrations will lead you out of any decent-sized labyrinth. Hmmm. That doesn’t interest you, either? Come on, man. This is gold. Well, not actually made of gold, but… How about this one?” He pressed his finger to the flat surface of a katana’s blade. The weapon was elegant enough to be sinister-looking and almost did not look like Yuta’s usual work. “My father used this one in the first battle against the baron and his men. When there were still more elves. He claims it heals your own wounds when you wound others but I didn’t craft it with such properties. I’m certain he was high on adrenaline. If only I could still ask him...”

That was right. The baron had taken the lives of quite a few elves. Sicheng wanted to punch him in his bearded face. With one of his knives. 

After he dipped it in poison, though.

“Sicheng!” Yuta was a tall man but he still had to stand on his tiptoes to point to the sword that hung horizontally on the wall near the ceiling. “Now this bad boy… This is from my earlier days. You can tell because the proportions are a bit off. Like, the handle is far too long considering the length of the blade. Do you see the rings dangling from here? Jangle them with enough force, for example, against the skull of one of your enemies, and you can knock smaller creatures over with the sound waves they generate. It’s just a little something extra.”

Sicheng had to admit that the swords were pretty. And pointy. Definitely pointy. Some more visibly pointy than others. But the more he looked at them, the less their special brand of pointiness appealed to him. He still preferred the pointiness of daggers and knives. There was just a  _ difference _ . Smaller blades had a certain level of slithering shadiness to them that a sword just couldn’t match up to. If you saw someone walking around with a sword strapped to their hip or back, you immediately assumed they were righteous and upstanding. A guy with  _ daggers _ , though? They  _ had _ to be cool.

And Sicheng just wanted to be cool.

That’s why he had so many daggers.

Yuta kept on. “How about these twin swords? Although I’m not sure you could really call them twins. Somehow, this one here ended up with a greenish-tint to the steel. I didn’t curse it. At least not intentionally. But you have to admit there’s something off about it. Doesn’t the jewel in the hilt remind you of an eye? Doesn’t it follow you around the room? I swear it glows in the dark a little. But it’s difficult to see. I feel like twin swords would be your thing but you don’t seem to be reacting favorably, so how about this long sword? It floats if you try to drop it.” 

Sicheng stopped listening to him. Not that Yuta was a bad salesman. It was just that Sicheng already knew what he wanted most. He wanted to hold something but it wasn’t the hilt of a sword. He relaxed against the couch and sighed his relief, thankful that Yuta hadn’t caught him slipping. Sicheng somehow managed to get out of the situation without admitting that he had  _ feelings _ . And not just regular feelings but the heart-pounding kind. The kind of feelings that would shatter his dreams and ruin his plans. The kind of feelings that would complicate things if he ever acted on them.

“This one here I kind of slapped together,” Yuta said, pointing to some long, hooked abomination of a thing. “See? It’s the tusk of a were-warthog but it’s been spelled so that--”

Sicheng tuned him out again. And he hated how quickly his mind brought Guanheng to the forefront. The young man’s voice asking, almost begging, “What if he needs  _ our  _ help?” As if he also knew that Kun needed the both of them.

“Curses,” Sicheng huffed.

What was he thinking?

He had a mission to complete! 

Yuta was right. This wasn’t the time to lose focus. There was too much responsibility riding on Sicheng’s shoulders. There were too many people waiting for him to fulfill his promise. If he slacked off now, right here at the end, right when it all was about to come to a head, then everything that had happened over the last few years wouldn’t matter. The suffering his people had endured would mean nothing. His months and months of serving the goddess of the harvest when he’d much rather be serving his old patron god. All of that torment would mean nothing if he foiled everything he’d worked for just to see a man (or two) smile. At that point, he may as well saw off the tips of his ears and never call himself an elf again.

Sicheng steeled his resolve and swallowed down his emotions like they were a bad-tasting medicine.

If he saw Guanheng and Kun again, it would be far too soon.

He shouldn’t be sitting here wanting to see them again anyways. One was an assassin that he hired in a dark alley who he shouldn’t even be crossing paths with again until he was handing over the last half of his payment. The other was simply a passerby on the street who they shared a meal with.

There wasn’t much that should even be connecting them. So why were they connected?

Sicheng poured himself another mug of water and heartily swallowed it down, praying that it was alcohol instead. 

What he wasn’t counting on, however, was for Yuta to not only be perceptive enough to realize that Sicheng was no longer paying him any mind but to also know his friend well enough to say exactly what he was thinking even when he wasn’t saying it. “You don’t care about swords. You’re in love with a person, aren’t you?”

Sicheng promptly spit out the water he had just took a sip of. It went everywhere. Across the table and the floor. He coughed and sputtered. “What? Don’t be absurd!”

But Yuta continued to be absurd. “You came all the way out here to escape your feelings, didn’t you?”

Sicheng didn’t trust himself to speak.

“Sicheng,” Yuta scolded. “We just finished talking about this. You can’t relax, even for a second. You can’t let your guard down until the baron is dead. And perhaps not even then. Who knows if his second-in-command takes up leadership before we can establish anything of our own? What if they are worse than he is?” Yuta stepped away from his wall of weapons and leaned his weight against the back of the couch, staring down at Sicheng like a teacher disciplining a student. “It’s been years already but this is only the beginning, Sicheng. If we’re going to make life for elves better here, we have a long way to go.”

Sicheng blamed the surge of emotions in his chest on the fact that there was still a bit of alcohol in his system. “But I’m so tired, Yuta,” he bemoaned. “And they annoy me… but they also make me feel like there’s  _ more _ .” More of what, he didn’t exactly know. More to life?

Before Yuta could say anything else, there was a knock on his front door.

Both elves turned to face the sound.

Yuta moved first. Slowly. Precisely. When he passed by his wall of weapons, he grabbed a short, narrow sword and hid it behind his back as he approached the door.

He swung open the door.

Sicheng’s life flashed before his eyes when the lantern light fell on the face of their visitor. “Xiao Dejun,” he hissed under his breath. He was already moving. Already leaping into action. He jumped up from the couch and darted towards the back of Yuta’s house with so much speed that he was there and gone in a single candleflame flicker.

“Darling,” Xiao Dejun sang out. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. You never come into town anymore. Everyone thought you were dead. Aren’t you going to invite me in? Why are you holding a sword?”

Sicheng hadn’t been to Yuta’s home in a while but he still knew the rooms and halls. He still knew how to jiggle the window in the back so that it would slide up without making much of a sound. He propped one foot on the sill and jumped, landing soundlessly in the grass outside.

“Curse that bard,” Sicheng growled, standing up. He was about to make a run for it when movement out of the corner of his eye put him on full alert. Sicheng reached beneath his cloak and pulled free one of his knives.

“Curse him? I think he should be blessed,” said Guanheng. He rolled up the baggy sleeves of his mage robes and propped his hands on his hips. “I’d love to have a friend who knows me as well as Dejun knows you. I mean, he told me exactly what window you’d leap out of.” He jerked his head to the side to get his glossy, curly hair out of his eyes. 

“Why are you here?” Sicheng asked, still clutching the knife in his hand, still prepared to use it.

Guanheng didn’t seem at all intimidated by the flash of steel. “What are you talking about, Sicheng? I came to get you.”

“Why?” Sicheng demanded. He could hear Dejun’s jovial laughter coming from inside the house. The bright, obnoxious optimism sent a shiver up his spine.

“Come now, silly. You’ve forgotten already?” Guanheng stepped forward and grabbed Sicheng by the wrist. “Your lovely celebrity friend heard a rumor that the baron’s carriage broke down at the edge of the dead lands.”

Sicheng tilted his head back. “My. It would be very unfortunate if something were to happen to him out there.”

“Very unfortunate,” Guanheng agreed.

“Where’s Kun,” Sicheng asked, trying not to sound too desperate and eager.

“Already on his way out of town.”

Sicheng squinted into the distance, in the direction of the woods that separated the town from the dead lands. “You aren’t going to stop me, are you?”

“Would I come all the way here to tell you that just to hold you back?”

Sicheng looked over at Guanheng. Then he looked down at the man’s hand squeezing his wrist.

“I’m not holding you back.” Guanheng tugged at his wrist hard, pulling him towards the road. “I’m leading the way.”


	11. A Hint At Something More

So Guanheng led the way. At least for a short distance.

“Is this some trick,” Sicheng had to know. “Were you all in on this?”

“It’s no trick,” Guanheng replied. “We were looking for you. We found you. That’s it.”

“Unhand me.”

“So that you can run off and worry the both of us sick again? I don’t think so. Kun would never forgive me if I came back without you.” He guided Sicheng through the wild grass of Yuta’s property and around to the front of the blacksmith’s house where Dejun leaned against the doorframe with an obnoxiously cocky grin on his face. 

He looked like a proper villain, Sicheng thought. One sharp inhale away from saying, “All according to my master plan,” before laughing maniacally.

Sicheng had meant it in his head to be sinister but the mental image made him snicker in delight instead.

The reaction made Dejun’s entire face light up. “You’re happy to see me? I thought I’d never live to see the day.”

“As if!” Sicheng’s demeanor changed instantly. He shook the knife that he was still holding in his hand. “How did you find me?”

“Put that thing away,” Dejun said, waving a hand dismissively. “You’re never gonna use it.”

“Says who?”

“We’ve known each other too long, Sicheng. The joke is getting old.” Dejun crossed his arms over his chest. “Now, about your plan to assassinate the baron--”

“I’ll use it,” Sicheng threatened. He clutched the handle of the knife a little harder. “On you.”

Dejun was unimpressed. “You won’t.”

“Wanna bet?” Sicheng reversed his grip on the knife as if to swing it and the song of the metal vibrating summoned a particular blacksmith from the depths of his house.

Yuta barrelled past Dejun to snatch the knife out of Sicheng’s hand. “Well, would you look at this?” He touched a calloused fingertip to the blade. Anyone else doing such a dangerous thing would have cut skin and introduced blood but Yuta’s hands were so hardened from his years at the craft that the blade could not cut his skin. At least, not with just a gentle stroke. “Such thinness and yet such sharpness! How is it so sturdy?” He tossed the knife from one hand to the other and then back again. “Perfectly balanced to be so narrow.” He thrust the weapon forward as if testing the heft. “Yes. This is great for getting through the squishy bits and down to the good stuff.” Finally, he turned his crazed eyes on Sicheng. “Where did you get such a thing? I _ must _ meet who made it.”

The look in his eyes made a shiver race up Sicheng’s spine. Perhaps it was because the blade in his hand was glinting just as bright. “Yuta, I don’t know who made it.”

“How can you not know? You had to have bought it from _ someone _ in town.”

“Like anyone in town can make something like this except you.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not that great.” The fire in Yuta’s eyes reignited. “Tell me. Who created such a beauty? We must compare notes.”

Sicheng barely managed to get his hand on the knife’s hilt and wrench it out of Yuta’s large hand. “A traveling merchant had it up for sale. Came from the city by the edges of the desert, they said, but claimed the dagger was made even farther south than that.”

“I believe it,” Dejun contributed. He pointed. “Look at the pattern here and the slight swirl of the edges there.” 

“Well, how did you get it,” Yuta asked. He was still eyeing the knife like he was going to make another grab for it. “You certainly didn’t spend money on it, as long as you’ve been saving up to hire the King of Stealth.”

“You didn’t steal it, did you,” Guanheng asked.

Sicheng turned around to glare at the man. “Do you really think so lowly of me?” He didn’t even want to hear Guanheng’s answer if he had one. He turned back to Yuta. “The merchant traded me the weapon after I blessed a few of their trinkets.” But he would not be distracted for too long. This wasn’t about the knife. It was about the bard and the warrior who had shown up at his hiding place. He turned his eyes back on Dejun. “You. How did you find me out here?”

Dejun shrugged his shoulders up to his ears.

Ooh, this is why Sicheng didn’t like him! The bard always seemed to know too much. Much more than simple gossip off the streets could ever tell him. Sicheng turned the blade of his knife towards Dejun’s chest. “You--”

“He’s not a lousy gossip,” Guanheng spoke up, as if he knew what Sicheng was about to say. “He’s not lousy. And I’m not just saying that because I’m his biggest fan.” He reached out for Sicheng but Sicheng spun away from his reaching hands. Guanheng continued, “He’s a good friend. And knows you better than you think.”

_ Better than any friend should _, Sicheng wanted to say. When he looked up at Dejun, there was a violet brightness to his eyes. Inhuman. But it was gone in less than a blink. Sicheng wasn’t even sure he saw it correctly.

“All I’m doing is helping you,” Dejun explained himself. “You want to kill the baron. I know where the baron is. It’s as simple as that.”

Sicheng turned away from him, unable to maintain eye contact for too long. “Let me guess… You want to come along.”

“Oh, I desperately want to,” Dejun said with a laugh. “What good is an adventuring party without a bard to sing songs of their adventures?”

“Assassination party,” Guanheng corrected under his breath.

Sicheng kept his eyes on Dejun. He prompted, “You want to come along, but…?”

“I can’t go too far out of town,” said Dejun. He sounded a bit sad.

“Why not? Do you have a performance soon? Can we watch?” Guanheng’s eyes sparkled a little in anticipation.

“I can’t leave town. It’s one of the terms of the contract.”

Dejun’s explanation was worded a little weird, Sicheng thought. The man was making it sound like he physically couldn’t leave. As if he was being stopped from doing so.

But what he meant by all of that wasn’t near the top of Sicheng’s priority list. “That doesn’t explain how you found me,” Sicheng snapped. 

When Dejun didn’t speak in his own defense, Guanheng spoke up for him, “He’s a good friend and he cares a lot about you, Sicheng. He knew you’d either be at the temple or with a friend and, fortunately, you don’t have too many friends so your location was easy to narrow down.”

Sicheng frowned. It almost sounded like too convenient of a story.

“But,” Guanheng said quickly, “I’m one of your friends now. And if you ever need a new place to run to, there’s always plenty of space for you beside me.” He further cemented his point by grabbing hold of Sicheng’s hand and squeezing.

That sounded like an awful lot.

But it also didn’t sound like enough.

Guanheng thought the same thing. “And there’s plenty of space for the both of us beside Kun.”

It’s what Sicheng wanted to hear yet, at the same time, hearing it made him feel even worse. “Unhand me,” he said, snatching his hand free of Guanheng’s grasp. He pointed angrily at Dejun, making sure to do it with the sharp end of his knife. “And I’m not through with you. I’m only turning around and walking away because there’s somewhere more important I’d rather be.”

Guanheng smiled. As bright as the sun rising. 

Before the guy could say something embarrassing, Sicheng spoke first. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. There’s a baron lost in the woods who needs help getting back into town.” He made a gesture with the knife in his hands. “I need to _ point _ the way.”

That made Guanheng let out a belly laugh.

Dejun cringed. “Ugh. Don’t do that.” 

“Ever again,” Yuta agreed.

Guanheng hurriedly followed after Sicheng as the cleric stomped away. “Well,” he said, placing a hand on Sicheng’s shoulder. “_I_ thought it was funny.”


	12. Respite

They had gotten quite a ways down the long dirt path that led to town before Sicheng sheathed his knife.

It was the simplest action but Guanheng immediately took advantage of the new vacancy across the man’s palm by grabbing Sicheng’s hand. “Hands are a bit easier to hold than knives,” Guanheng told him. “Maybe because they are slightly softer.” Sicheng grit his teeth and attempted to rescue his hand but Guanheng knew it was coming. He tightened his grip  _ just enough _ . “Please?”

“Fine,” Sicheng surrendered. “But only for a short while.”

Guanheng took the lead, pulling Sicheng along. He didn’t want to waste a second, it seemed, and kept them moving at a pace quite close to a jog. 

In such a manner, he led the way towards the glittering orange lantern light of town on the horizon. Past the dark, quiet farms. Past the slowly rotating windmills. Past the hills and the river.

The whole while, Guanheng kept his fingers wrapped tight around Sicheng’s hand.

The whole while, Sicheng allowed him.

Until…

“Wait,” Sicheng said. He pried his hand free of the scrawny boy’s grip and wiped the dampness of sweat away on the hem of his cloak.

“Sicheng,” Guanheng gasped out. A little desperately. He reached for Sicheng’s hand again.

“Hands off.” Sicheng pushed Guanheng’s arm away and then hopped towards the edge of the road.

They weren’t close enough to town to have much lantern light to see by. Even the stars in the sky provided very little light this late into the night. Sicheng didn’t have to take but two or three steps off of the road before Guanheng almost completely lost sight of him in the wildflowers and weeds and bushes that grew just beyond the beaten path.

Guanheng let out a slightly screechy, “Sicheng!”

“Quiet,” the man shot back.

Guanheng clamped his mouth shut but did not silence his worry. He took one slow step and then another into the waist-high grass. Where had Sicheng gone that quickly? He squinted into the dark and felt around with wide sweeps of his arms until his hands touched the shoulders of Sicheng’s cloaked, hunched-over form. “What are you doing?” But Guanheng only had to take one more step to peer over Sicheng’s shoulder and see what it was he was up to.

There was an altar out here.

Small. Old. Forgotten. Made of gathered sticks bundled together with hemp rope, pillars of stacked stones and dried mud, and cheap planks of half-rotted wood... but it was an altar nonetheless.

It still served its purpose.

Well, it could if it wasn’t so ignored. So reclaimed by nature.

“It used to be beautiful,” said Sicheng. “And right here at the side of the road? I’m sure it was always filled to overflowing with tithes and offerings.”

Guanheng opened his mouth to tease Sicheng but then he saw just enough of Sicheng’s uncharacteristically sad expression.

Sicheng wiped clods of dirt off of the altar. Gently, at first, as if afraid of further damaging it, but then far more passionately as the seconds ticked by.

Guanheng gathered his robes up around his waist and knelt in the dirt next to Sicheng. His legs were smooth and skinny and unmarred, but his knees were dirtied instantly as he settled in the grass. He was so against any kind of physical labor yet he used his hands to dig into the soil and pull up the pesky weeds that had overgrown the tiny structure. There were even briars hidden in the roots but he did not hiss or complain whenever they pricked his palms. He just worked to clear the plants and debris that had grown up around the altar. To the point where the structure was hardly visible, even as Guanheng sat right in front of it.

Sicheng tended to his own share of the work. He straightened the stacks of rocks and shook out dirt from the sticks and plucked mushrooms from the mud. He wiped cobwebs from the planks of wood and scared the resting insects away. The places where the altar sat crooked, he put it straight again. Where the altar was dirtied, he used his hands and even the hem of his cloak to clean it.

Now the center of the small altar was visible. In it were numerous wax candles, covered in grime and dust. Unused for weeks. Arranged in a circle, they surrounded a palm-sized, crudely made ceramic figurine that represented, and Sicheng only had to look at her for a second to recognize her, the goddess of the harvest.

“Such a shame,” Sicheng mumbled. More to himself than to his companion. “Perhaps this is why the farmers had such a tough time sowing seeds in the spring.” The soil had been unforgiving and particular, leading many of the farmers to tend to land farther outside of the town and, thus, that much closer to the dead lands.

Guanheng pressed his mouth to the shell of Sicheng’s ear. “How did you know this was here?” 

“She called me,” said Sicheng, with such fervor that he did not have to explain himself beyond that.

His task completed, Sicheng shifted his weight until he was more properly kneeling and then he clasped his hands in front of his face before shutting his eyes in prayer.

The whole time, Guanheng watched him silently. He watched Sicheng’s mouth move as he soundlessly recited the rites. When Sicheng lowered his hands and blinked open his eyes, Guanheng plainly asked, “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

“What makes you think I’m not?” He would not have his faith called into question. “You don’t know me,” Sicheng told him. Not as angrily as he could have. “You don’t know the things I care deeply about.” He reached out a hand and his fingers grazed the face of the figurine that represented his goddess. There was a brand new chill to the air. So cold it sizzled. But the sensation was there and gone. If Guanheng hadn’t studied magic, he wouldn’t have been able to name the crackling feeling that lingered in his bones like an ache. Sicheng whispered, “There. Now she can reach this place again.”

Guanheng attempted to stand but he was so unused to kneeling for extended periods of time that his legs did not immediately obey him.

It was Sicheng who grabbed him beneath his arm and hoisted him to his feet. “Gods are powerful but, at the same time, they are so, so weak.” He let go of Guanheng’s arm but they were only separated for a moment before Guanheng reached out and grabbed hold of Sicheng’s hand again.

Sicheng let him. Again.

The cleric continued, “If their altars aren’t cared for… If there is no one to serve them and look out for them… Then the gods can’t do anything.” Sicheng grit his teeth as he remembered the patron god he used to serve. The one he devoted his life to before the baron stomped the last of their altars underfoot. He wanted to be angry but he chose to let go of the feeling. 

For now.

They continued their walk. A bit more briskly than before. Both of them in a subconscious hurry to return to the one they were missing.

The town came closer and closer but Guanheng did not lead Sicheng to the nearest set of gates. They circled around the stone wall erected about the town, giving a respectable distance to the residents asleep in the huts and tents that sat in clusters near the wall.

Or at least that was their intention.

“Brother,” an old woman vocalized, clasping her hands and dipping her head in a respectful religious bow. 

Sicheng acknowledged her with a slight dip of his head, keen to keep on walking.

“May I have a word, brother?”

Her plea reached Sicheng’s ears but he pretended that he hadn’t heard. His oath demanded that he stop for her and hear her out and pray for her. But the baron would only be defenseless for so long.

“Sicheng,” Guanheng hissed, digging his nails into Sicheng’s hand as if to discipline him. “She’s speaking to you.”

Sicheng turned in the woman’s direction.

She sat outside of a large tent composed of multiple swaths of colorful fabric. The orange glow of a campfire cast shadows over her wrinkled, weathered face. He did not recognize her from the congregation but he was slowly becoming accustomed to being seen even when he hid himself. He pulled the hood of his cloak down from over his head. “May I offer you a prayer?”

Though her eyes were clouded over with either blindness or age, she tracked Sicheng’s movements around the campfire as he approached her. 

He pulled his hand free of Guanheng’s hold and made to clasp them together in prayer.

Then, suddenly, she said, “The goddess of the harvest is most pleased with you. She favors you so strongly.”

Her words made Sicheng pause. He looked up at her, unsure of what to make of her thin, beseeching hand.

However, Guanheng did. He put his palms flat against Sicheng’s back and pushed the cleric towards the woman.

Fast as a snake, the old woman grabbed Sicheng’s hand.

By instinct, Sicheng’s free hand went to the hem of his cloak.

“I’m not here to hurt you, brother,” she said. “Lay down your arms.” She shut her blind eyes and pressed her forehead to the back of Sicheng’s hand. Her skin was softer than Sicheng would have expected. But also much much cooler.

“I’m no priest,” Sicheng exhaled. “There is no need to treat me so formally.” He did not know what to do as he watched her hunch over in a bow meant for someone of far higher standing at the temple. “Please, you shouldn’t--”

“If I show you just this much respect, perhaps she will favor me even for a moment.”

Bewildered, Sicheng faced Guanheng, who only smiled up at him.

“You’re missing one, aren’t you,” she said. As quickly as she had grabbed Sicheng’s hand, she released it. “He waits for you. Go to him.” Without needing to see, she pointed the way forward. Around the wall and towards the north gate. “He won’t be able to fulfill his destiny without your blessing.” As if already tired of them, she turned back to her campfire, her wispy gray hair gleaming red in the firelight.

And she was right.

Kun  _ was _ waiting for them.

Just on the other side of the hill. As if he somehow knew exactly where to stand so that when they first saw them, they both gasped. 

He was just that captivating. And Sicheng couldn’t even see his face.

Near one of the secondary gates to the town, Kun leaned against a lantern post, his armor catching the flickering light of the lanterns above his head.

If they had seen him dressed like a more proper rogue, in a cloak and practical trousers and footstep-quieting boots, he would have looked out of place. If he were the King of Stealth, he wouldn’t be seen at all. But as he was the King of Stealth’s son, he blended in by purposefully standing out. Because he was dressed in his full plate armor, with his greatsword slung over his back, he looked like a royal guard stationed outside of the city. In fact, weary travelers just getting into town even at that time of night dipped their heads in greeting to him as if the royal insignia was actually engraved on his chest.

Kun must have heard Guanheng and Sicheng or even  _ felt _ them approach because he pushed himself off of the lantern post and turned around to face them with a smile parting his lips.

And that’s how Sicheng knew.

That was the first moment he understood. 

That’s how he recognized how people knew him as a cleric even with his cloak on. Even when he was not wearing his proper cleric attire.

With Kun, it was the same way. Even in his full plate armor, even with his plumed helmet covering the majority of his face, Sicheng knew Kun. It was like going somewhere far away for a long time only to come back home and still know the streets. Still know the food. Still remember the sights and sounds and smells. 

Sicheng looked at Kun and felt  _ comfort _ .

“There you are,” Kun sang out.

His upbeat voice made Sicheng’s heart lurch. He felt it move inside of his chest. Felt it beat with an emotion he could hardly fathom.

“Here we are,” Guanheng stated, saying the exact words Sicheng was thinking. Just like when facing the old blind woman, Guanheng put his hands on Sicheng’s back and pushed the older man forward.

“We should move quickly,” said Kun. He was not confused. He did not ask questions. He just acted, grabbing Sicheng’s tanned, bare hand in his own gloved one. 

Sicheng let him.

“The baron and his men won’t sit still for long. Time is of the essence.” Kun sounded braver than Sicheng would of expected from him. He also sounded surprisingly alert and sober for a man who had been drunkenly singing and dancing on top of a tavern table merely a few hours before. “I’ll show you, Sicheng, that I’m competent. Your faith in me won’t be wasted.”

Guanheng stepped forward. He grabbed Sicheng by his other hand, squeezing tightly.

Sicheng let him.

“Now that I know how much this means to you,” said Guanheng, “I don’t think I can stand to hold you back.”

“I think all I’ve been doing is holding myself back,” whispered Sicheng. “And it’s so tiring.” He spoke softly. So very softly. The other two only heard him because they were Kun and Guanheng and he was Sicheng. “But from now, I’m not going to hold back.”

He squeezed both of their hands.


	13. An Arrow Aimed And Fired

The road out of town was hilly and winding so the walk was tiring and slow.

If they had headed east from town, there would have been the farmlands. To the west, the windmills. To the south, the grasslands. But as they were headed north, closer to the wild expanse of dry earth and skeleton trees creatively nicknamed the dead lands, they were surrounded by the muddy marshlands. The grasping willow trees blocked out the sky, their limbs hung low over the road.

When the warrior, the rogue and the mage left the lantern glow of the town far behind and found themselves surrounded by these trees, it was as if the world were smearing together beneath the black of a single, swampy shadow.

Sicheng, with his elven blood, was able to see at least some narrow distance ahead even in the dark but he could tell by how closely Kun and Guanheng clung to him that they probably could not even see their hands in front of their own faces.

This would not do.

“Unhand me,” Sicheng demanded of them, stopping short. Already, he was attempting to yank his hands free from their grip.

“Do you plan to leave us in the dark,” Guanheng squeaked, tightening his grip like a vice.

Before Sicheng could say anything, Kun flatly stated, “I trust you,” and let go of Sicheng’s hand. 

Several moments of hesitation later, Guanheng followed suit.

With his hands free, Sicheng clasped his palms together. He whispered a prayer and then wove his faith into a simple spell, creating a bright orb of gleaming blue fire above his hands. The brand new light source illuminated the dirt path ahead of them and pushed away the shadows.

“Perhaps we should have waited until the morning,” Guanheng suggested. “One wrong step and we’ll be swallowed by the bog.”

“As if the baron and his men will stay in these woods until sunrise,” Sicheng snapped. “They have probably already finished their repairs, as long as it has taken us.”

Guanheng said, “We would have met them along the way if they were still planning on coming into town. There’s a chance they’ve made camp for the night.”

“Out here,” Sicheng questioned, jerking his head to indicate the muddy ground and soggy grass around them. “If anything, they made camp where the ground is sturdy.” The road beneath their feet was less a road and more an idea at this point, a zig-zag strip of flat, solid earth between pools of swampy water.

Kun asked, “Did the bard describe to you exactly where the baron’s carriage broke down?”

“No,” said Guanheng. “Only that they stopped at the edge of the dead lands. He said there would be no way to miss them.”

“As if he could see them all the way from town,” complained Sicheng. “I still don’t know how Dejun knows such a thing!” 

“He heard a rumor,” Guanheng attempted.

“He heard nothing. I’m certain this is one of his games. Perhaps even a trap.”

“Don’t you trust your friends?”

“He’s not my friend.”

“Quiet. Both of you,” Kun interrupted. “Your voices carry.”

“As if there is anyone out here to hear us,” said Sicheng.

Sicheng did not have to look around for long to know that no one else was out here. Coming or going, there were no other travelers. They had the road to themselves.

But…

“I see a campfire,” Kun announced. “Sicheng, if you could put out the light…”

Sicheng bristled at being ordered but he whispered a spell and the blue fire of his magic was extinguished.

There was a painful moment of blindness but as Kun’s eyes adjusted, he was more certain that he could see the orange heat of natural flames around the corner.

Sicheng saw it as well. “It is them,” he decided, reaching for one of his numerous knives beneath his cloak.

“Let me go first,” Kun said, putting a gloved hand across Sicheng’s chest. “I am the quietest.”

Sicheng was about to express his doubts but, already, Kun was stepping forward. He moved at quite the clip, a jog at the least, and such movement should have had all of his plate armor clanging like alarm bells in the quiet night but, instead, Sicheng couldn’t hear a thing save for the slightest rustle of Guanheng’s robes from next to him.

“Let’s not get left behind,” Guanheng said. He reached into the sleeves of his robes for one of his wands.

Sicheng rushed forward. He followed Kun around the bend. 

The fire was indeed a real fire but it had not been created by men camping at the side of the road. An entire wagon was up in flames. One of its wheels dislodged. The majority of its cargo scattered across the road. The horse that pulled it long gone.

Kun forgot that they were on an assassination mission. “Hello,” he called out loudly. “Is anyone around? Is anyone hurt?”

“We’re supposed to be causing wounds not treating them,” Sicheng griped. He didn’t have to get too close to the burning wagon to feel the intense heat of the flames. “This carriage is sturdy but it is still made of wood,” he said.

Guanheng was thinking the same thing he was. “This fire was only just started. I’d put a heap of gold on it that the fire hasn’t even been burning for five minutes.”

It was obvious from the light, almost sweet smell of the smoke. The lack of singed grass beneath the wagon’s wheels. If this were an accidental fire, it would have spread significantly. Torched the landscape. But this was a controlled blaze.

Guanheng said it before Sicheng had the chance to. “Someone knew we were coming.”

Sicheng heard it on the wind. A high whistle. Hardly audible over the crackling of the fire but he still recognized the threat of it. He warned, “Kun!”

Kun moved on instinct. Sicheng didn’t even have to tell him exactly what was happening or what to do. The armored man reached a hand over his shoulder, unsheathed his mighty greatsword and swung it through the air.

The metallic  _ ding _ of impact and then the arrow landed in the dirt to Sicheng’s right with a  _ twang _ .

“Nice deflection,” Guanheng complimented him. He mumbled a spell and the wand in his hand was surrounded by starry light. In a flash, he was holding his magical, sparkling shield.

Sicheng heard it again. The noise of an arrow flying through the air at great speed. “Guanheng!”

Guanheng stepped forward and raised his shield. The arrow bounced off of the shield and harmlessly landed on the road between his feet.

“Did you see where it came from,” Kun asked.

Beyond the orange of the fire, the landscape around them was an unrecognizable blackness.

“I saw,” Sicheng said. He rushed into action.

With a dagger in either hand, he ran forward off of the road. One step, two steps, three steps, and then he was moving not just forward but  _ sideways _ into the shadows. They wrapped themselves around him, hiding him from sight. Cloaking him beneath the cover of night. Faster and faster Sicheng ran, as quiet as a leaf fluttering through wind. Even his boots made no sound and met no resistance, even when they should have been dragging him down into the bog with each step.

He saw their attacker. One lone man already notching another arrow to his bow string.

Sicheng leaped out at him. The shadows loosed their hold on him and he became visible again, a dark-clad revenant with gleaming daggers held in front of him. “I’ll gut you,” he cried out. “With the pointy end!”

The archer squawked at his sudden appearance and though he lowered his bow, he did not have time to more properly defend himself before Sicheng circled around him, kicked him square in the shoulder blades and sent him flat on his face into the mud.

The archer coughed and sputtered and attempted to stand but Sicheng was on top of him, knees on his back. He held both of his daggers on either side of the man’s neck in a silent but serious threat. “Who are you? Who sent you?”

No one should have known they were out here. No one but that lousy gossip Xiao Dejun!

He repeated, “Who are you?” He sheathed one of his daggers to free up a hand.

“I should be asking  _ you _ that,” the man choked out.

Sicheng lost his patience. He put his hand on the back of the man’s head and reacquainted his face with the mud.

The archer fought back, gasping for air and spitting grass and dirt out of their mouth. “Who are you,” he screeched for the third time.

“Sicheng, take it easy,” Guanheng scolded him. “Your oath of non-violence. Remember?”

Backlit by the towering blaze, Guanheng and Kun approached their fallen assailant, weapons at the ready and faces stern.

Kun said, “We checked around the wagon but saw no one else. He must be acting alone.”

“Who  _ are _ you,” the archer asked again, staring up at Kun and Guanheng, horror infiltrating his eyes as it dawned on him that he was severely outnumbered and outmatched. 

“None of your business,” Sicheng snapped. He pressed his dagger to the back of the man’s neck just a tad harder. If only to remind him that the steel was still there.

The archer risked his neck to keep speaking. “A mage who carries daggers and can enter stealth. A man from the rogue’s guild wearing heavy armor and lifting a sword about as long as he is tall. A warrior who fights with magically conjured armaments. Are you a traveling circus?”

Sicheng pushed the archer’s face into the mud yet again.

The archer nonverbally surrendered, throwing his longbow aside and going limp beneath Sicheng’s hands.

Sicheng released his hold on the man and slowly stood up, keeping his grip on his dagger tight in case he needed it. “Call us a circus again and you won’t have a tongue to speak with.”

When the archer finally sat up and wiped his sleeve across his muddy face, Sicheng saw the man’s face for the first proper time. Short, dark hair. Small features. Almost puppy-like eyes. He looked younger than Sicheng would have expected, especially considering that he was so accurate with a bow at such a distance.

“We’re no circus,” Kun grunted. Perceiving the threat to be dealt with, he sheathed his sword and relaxed his posture. The parts of his armor clinked together and made audible noise for the first time in several minutes. “We’re merely people walking our own path.”

Sicheng lowered his dagger. His grip on the handle slack to the point that he nearly dropped it in the mud. They were difficult to spot beneath the caked-on mud and the man’s tangled hair but… his ears were… pointed. The sight of them was like being punched in the throat. “How do I not know you?”

The man tried to get to his feet but he was so winded from Sicheng’s assault that he couldn’t get up off of his knees. 

No, Sicheng was certain. Beneath the stench of the bog. Beneath the smell of the smoke from the fire. Sicheng could  _ smell _ that the man in front of him was an elf. But that was impossible. Sicheng kept close tabs on all of the elves in the area. He had to. The elves had to band together in order to maintain a grip on what meager life they could glean while living beneath the fat thumb of such an openly racist leader. Yet Sicheng did not know this elf. Did not know their name or their scent. For Sicheng not to know an elf was like a mother not knowing the child they’d raised.

Sicheng asked again, far more desperately, “Who  _ are _ you?”

Guanheng must have just caught on to the reason why Sicheng could not stop repeating himself. The shield he held shimmered like a night sky before fading from his hands. He leaned forward and helped the strange, mud-covered elf to his feet.

Even Kun stepped forward to swipe patches of mud off of the elf’s neck and jaw and ears.

The archer freed himself from their prodding and turned to Sicheng. “I am named Jeno. And if you have traveled this far and dodged death at my hands, then… then you are indeed the one he sent to me.”


	14. Infernal Calling

_ You are indeed the one he sent to me. _

They were ominous words. Kind of spooky, really. A promise that seemed to foreworn complete and total destruction. Along the lines of,  _ you will indeed pay this restaurant bill _ or, worse,  _ you will indeed watch over the children during temple service _ .

Oooh. That was the worst!

Jeno said, “And if you’re the ones he sent, then the next few steps can only be performed by you.”

Sicheng didn’t like to hear such words. He didn’t like the sound of them. They came off very hero’s prophecy-y. Very no matter what you do, life will bring you here-y. Very fulfill your destiny-y. Very fate has already made all the decisions-y.

And Sicheng refused to have his decisions decided for him when, you know, he could decide all of his decisions himself. 

“Who?” Sicheng angrily demanded. “Who thinks they can tell me what to do? Who told you we’d be here?”

Jeno wiped more clumps of mud off of his clothes, not at all perturbed by Sicheng’s ranting and raving. He simply said, “The warlock.”

The warlock? Oooh. That sounded mystical. More mystical than Sicheng was willing to deal with. He refused to be anyone’s Chosen One! He tightened his grip on his knife. “This warlock… Do they know why we’re out here?”

Did they know that they were out here to slay the baron and possibly restructure the government of an entire town? Because if anyone knew about Sicheng’s plans other than the elves, other than the rogue and the warrior standing next to him in the swamp, if  _ anyone else _ knew, then his plan was at risk. And he’d been working too hard to have it be  _ at risk _ .

Sicheng lowered his voice to a throaty growl. “Do  _ you _ know why we’re out here?” He reversed his grip on his knife and felt every muscle in his body tense.

Jeno clearly did not realize that his life was about to be in danger. “Of course he knows. Of course I know. The demon knows everything.”

Sensing that Sicheng was about to do or say something very stupid and/or very violent, Kun stepped forward, putting his body and his hulking plate armor between Sicheng’s knife and Jeno’s skinny body. “Are you here to obstruct us? If so, I highly recommend you change your mind.”

Even Guanheng reached a hand into the dark depths of his sleeve, to grasp one of his magic wands. 

Jeno’s face changed a little. As if he was only then becoming aware of how close he’d come to losing his neck. He held up a hand in surrender. “Do you think I’d be out here in the middle of the night to do anything but help?”

Sicheng stepped forward. “Look, kid, we’ve had a long night, and--”

“No,” Jeno stated more firmly. “I’m not here to obstruct you.” He started walking through the knee-high goop of the bog, back towards solid ground, back towards the raging wagon fire and all of its thickening smoke. The other three followed him. “I am here to help. Not you specifically, but the warlock… I’d do anything for him and so he requested I help you set the trap for the baron.”

So he really  _ did _ know why they were risking life and limb this close to the dead lands? Sicheng picked up his pace, ready and willing to put his knife between Jeno’s shoulder blades, but--

“Sicheng,” Guanheng said gently. He wrapped his arms around Sicheng’s waist and propped his chin up on Sicheng’s shoulder, stopping him from advancing. “Can he at least explain himself first?” He nuzzled his forehead against Sicheng’s jaw.

The overabundance of affection was like a critical hit. Sicheng ducked out from beneath Guanheng’s touch, yanked himself free of Guanheng’s grip.

“Unhand me,” Guanheng shouted, knowing exactly what Sicheng was about to say.

Sicheng fumed. He folded his arms across his chest like a scolded child when he discovered how well Guanheng knew him already. 

He didn’t like when people knew him.

“Since you don’t want me to touch you,” Guanheng began, “can you tell me the way you’d prefer to be loved?”

Kun looked over his shoulder at them, curious. Invested. 

Gosh. Sicheng bit his bottom lip. He wasn’t expecting such a serious conversation topic. He wasn’t expecting to be talking about love when the sun hadn’t even come up on their first full day together. “I’m not a being capable of love,” he said. “I exist only to seek out revenge against the oppressor of my people.”

Guanheng smiled and nodded like he knew Sicheng would say such a thing. “So do you prefer acts of affirmation? Or gift giving?”

“I just--” Sicheng choked on his own thoughts. But then his brain fired the words out of his mouth before he could stop them. “I just want to hear you say it.”

“I love you, Sicheng,” Guanheng said easily.

“I love you as well, Sicheng,” said Kun.

And it was so mighty. It wasn’t the slow burn of sticks striking together to make a small fire. No, it was the mighty, towering wagon fire and, with it, they were attempting to light a small candle.

“I love you, Kun,” said Guanheng, leaning past Sicheng to look at the older man.

“I love you, Guanheng,” Kun replied calmly, grinning. 

They both turned to Sicheng like it was his turn.

Sicheng cowered under their gazes, under their expressions of anticipation and hope. “We have more important things to discuss.” He pointed at Jeno’s back. The archer had managed to get a few paces ahead. “We should be talking about how that stranger knows something only Dejun would know! How does anyone else know the baron is out here tonight? Unless he works for the insane man.”

“Would he?” Kun asked. “Is he not an elf?”

“Does that change much,” Sicheng shot back. “He could be keeping us away from the baron on purpose. Giving that man time to repair his wagon and skedaddle across the dead lands.” He raised his knife so that its long blade nearly sparkled beneath the starlight. “If anything keeps my blade out of that bastard’s throat tonight…”

“Let’s not make assumptions,” Guanheng whispered. 

“He has to be someone,” Kun said. “Someone who can get access to such timely information.”

Sicheng was not convinced. This Jeno fellow… He either worked for the baron and was keeping an eye on the man’s flank while he escaped… or he worked for Xiao Dejun, somehow, and managed to beat them across the marshlands.

Sicheng thought aloud, “Dejun’s a lousy gossip but he knows how much this means to me. He wouldn’t let anyone else kill the baron, would he?”

Kun patted him on the back. “I don’t think anyone but you would be brave enough to step so close to that tyrant.”

In front of them, Jeno kicked and climbed and dragged himself out of the bog and onto the sturdy earth of the road. Mud dripped from his boots and from his linen tunic and from his quiver. He wiped himself off and then turned to look at them. In the bright warm light of the fire, he was a handsome man. His jawline was sharp and his face was rectangular but there was an undeniable amount of  _ softness _ in his expression. In his quiet smile. The twinkle in his eyes. The scrunch of his nose. The upward tilt of his brow. 

He looked… kind.

And Sicheng was immediately suspicious.

Jeno squatted down. Held out a hand to help them up out of the bog.

Forever trusting, Kun reached his hand out first, clamped his big, gloved hand around Jeno’s small one and let himself be pulled from the muck. When Kun had two feet on solid ground, he immediately went to wiping mud off of the metal of his armor. “Don’t be fooled by our friend’s arsenal of sharp and pointy things. He swore an oath to never use them.”

“I’ll use them,” Sicheng contradicted. “I’ll take all of you out.” But he made no move to do so.

Jeno smiled down at him, “Do you really think I am against you? Shouldn’t we elves stick together?”

Sicheng swatted Jeno’s helping hand away. “That’s another thing I don’t get. How can I not know you?”

Jeno propped his hands on his knees as he thought of ways to explain it. “I escaped.”

And those two words didn’t mean much at first but then Sicheng gasped as he thought it through. “You made it out of the woods? You made it out of the valley?”

The baron and his rabid, loyal followers had just about destroyed everything. Flattening elven settlements, wrecking their altars, damming up the river, overhunting all the deer and rabbits and birds, chopping down trees to make room for their own houses… and killing any elf who stood in their way. The war had been bloody. Brutal. And over terribly, terribly quickly. 

Sicheng hadn’t been much more than a child, then, but it was a memory he’d never forget.

And seeking revenge for all of that? It was a dream he would never let go of.

“Where did you go,” Sicheng asked, astonished. “The baron’s private army was massive. He even had the support of the towns along the edge of the desert. Even the royal army stationed at the city on the grasslands was deployed to round us all up, loot our homes and destroy our property.” That’s why so few of them had the money and social standing to do anything but just… survive in the city their own home had been destroyed to make room for. “Where did you go?”

“Across the dead lands,” Jeno explained.

And that was… impossible. 

The dead lands were called the dead lands for a reason. It wasn’t like the desert, which the tribes could still find life in. The dead lands were a blighted wasteland. Cursed ground. The emptiness stretched from horizon to horizon and then even further across than that. 

“The dead lands do not continue forever,” said Jeno, as if he knew exactly what Sicheng was thinking. “There is hope out there.”

He tried a second time to hold his hand out to Sicheng, to help him out of the swampy mess, but Sicheng still refused. Just… not as harshly.

Jeno turned to Guanheng instead, who readily accepted the extended hand, gripping it tightly in his own. 

“Sicheng,” said Guanheng, “if he was an enemy, would he help us?”

Sicheng remembered the one thing the other two had miraculously forgotten. “He shot at us!”

“It was a test,” Jeno defended himself quickly. “More people travel this road than you would think and I had to be sure I was approaching the right people. The warlock said you’d live if I took the shot. Anyone killed by my arrows couldn’t possibly be good enough for his plans.” 

When Guanheng was pulled from the bog, his mage robes dripped with muddy water and swamp slime. He grabbed fistfuls of the material and wrung out the grime as best he could.

Sicheng was not convinced. Still. “Warlock this… warlock that… How do they know anything? How do they know what we’ve been planning in secret?”

“I told you before,” Jeno said, backing away from the bog’s edge, “the demon bound to him knows all sorts of things. The demon uses that knowledge to keep the warlock’s plans moving forward.”

Sicheng realized that he had to extract himself from the bog, what with Guanheng still squeezing water from his clothing and Kun polishing his wrist guards to a spit shine. Sicheng put away his knife and drug himself out of the thick, stinking water. He coughed out, “How can a demon live in a place so heavily touched by gods?”

“The demon and the warlock have made a pact,” Jeno explained.

Ahh. What else would one do with the infernal things?

Jeno continued, “So long as the warlock lets the demon leech off of his soul, the demon can walk among men and gods.”

It sounded a bit blasphemous. Sicheng shuddered at just the thought! What a foul, vile, debauched thing to do! Letting some otherworldly monster eat your soul? Sicheng raised his hands to his ears and let his fingers brush against the symbols of his goddess that hung from his lobes just to ward away the  _ idea _ !

“How do you trust a demon to just… not completely consume you,” Guanheng asked.

“You don’t,” said Jeno. “But the demon must find the warlock useful or amusing in some way… because the demon lets himself be confined.”

Sicheng felt wobbly, like his knees were about to give out beneath him.

When Kun offered an arm to him, Sicheng did not swat it away. He sank against Kun’s sturdy form and let the man hold him up. 

“Don’t act so surprised,” Jeno said. The fire lapped at more of the wagon, causing the wood to sizzle and pop and snap as more of it was chewed away. Jeno turned to the towering inferno and blinked rapidly as if he’d forgotten all about it even though he was the one who had set it. “Don’t we all lean on an outside source for support in this day and age?”

Sicheng came all the more aware of how heavily he was leaning against Kun. But, damn, his legs still felt weak. Perhaps running with the shadows had drained him more sharply than he realized. He asked, “And does this demon also know that we’re out here to kill the baron? That we’re here because we heard the baron’s wagon broke down?”

“Of course they know,” said Jeno. “It’s their infernal curse making it all happen. Setting plans within plans into motion.”

“So where’s the baron’s party,” Kun wondered. “We’ve nearly reached the edge of the marshlands. Where can they possibly be out here?”

Jeno draped his bow over his shoulder and approached the flaming, blazing wagon ruins. “They’ve yet to come down this road but they will come through within the hour, I’ve been told.”

Jeno rummaged through the pouch on his hip and then used some kind of concoction in a glass jar to douse the flames that ate away at the wagon.

The liquid behaved in a way Sicheng had never seen before. It didn’t just run down the side of the wagon, dragged about by gravity. It seemed to climb up the wagon and swirl up the wood, chasing after the heat. The concoction almost seemed to  _ eat _ the fire, expanding and expanding, foaming up and swallowing until the flames were gone and the wagon was left behind, covered in slick, purplish ooze.

Something occurred to Sicheng. “Wait. Hold on. Did you just say that the baron’s wagon… hasn’t broken down  _ yet _ ?” It didn’t make sense. “Are you saying this warlock can predict the future?”

“I’m saying the demon bound to him can,” said Jeno. With the fire gone and the glow of the stars above them silver and dull, it was harder to see his face. Harder to see his surprisingly cocky smile.

“How can it predict the future,” Guanheng asked. He glanced over his shoulder, saw Kun practically cradling Sicheng beneath an arm. Guanheng stepped forward and curled himself beneath Kun’s other arm. “Then again… In order to put you here, Jeno, the demon even knew that the three of us would be here, walking through this swamp, right now.”

“How is that possible,” Kun questioned.

“It shouldn’t be,” Sicheng snapped. “Even highly-favored worshippers of the god of time don’t have the ability to see events before they happen. Such power unspools reality.”

Jeno stated, “This demon… He’s a being not of this existential plane. Why would he have to obey this world’s silly concept called time?”

Sicheng swallowed hard. This warlock just had such power at their beck and call? There was definitely a catch. Sicheng was absolutely positive. “And this warlock is a good guy?”

Jeno hesitated. Then he said, “Let’s just say our goals are temporarily in alignment.”

More to himself than to the others, Kun summarized, “So it knows so much because it… knows the future?”

Well, that was just lousy.

Sicheng wasn’t sure he wanted anyone or any _ thing _ knowing what he was going to have for breakfast in the morning before he knew it himself.

“I’m not saving any worlds,” Sicheng declared. “I’m not becoming anyone’s hero. I’m not overcoming any otherworldly obstacles or fighting against any planet-destroying forces of cosmic evil.” He stomped his foot to make sure everyone knew he was quite serious. “I’m just putting my dagger through the baron’s skull and then I’m going home for a nap.”

That made Jeno throw his head back and laugh. “Oh, don’t you worry about all of that. Such a wild, epic story…” He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “You’re not the one destined to change history.” 

Guanheng followed along enough to know where this was going. “The warlock is.”

“That’s just great,” Sicheng said. He nodded. “I can stay at the house after this.”

Kun turned to his left and pressed his mouth to Guanheng’s temple. Guanheng grinned. Then Kun turned to his right and pressed his mouth to Sicheng’s cheek who, for some odd reason, did not flinch away. 

“Can we meet this demon,” Sicheng asked. “I’d like to have a pointed word or two.”

“And can we meet this warlock,” Kun asked. “I would love to meet this world’s future savior. Have a coffee.”

Jeno looked from one man to the other and then over at the third. At the holy cleric who was friends with the shadows, at the rogue who did his best to stand out, at the stick-armed warrior who probably couldn’t lift the weight of an actual sword if he tried. Jeno said, “If you’ve come all the way out here, if you even know where to go and what to do, haven’t you already met them?”


	15. Vector

_ Haven’t you already met them? _

What a preposterous question! Sicheng was a devout follower of the goddess of the harvest. He spent all of his days in praise and worship, gathering tithes and offerings, teaching others. To even be accused of gallivanting about with a  _ demon _ ? “There’s no way I know a demon.”

“Well,” Jeno said, sounding rather calm despite the heavy subject matter, “your steps were guided here tonight by one.”

Goodness gracious. 

If Sicheng wasn’t already being held up by Kun’s sturdy arm, he’d have fallen over to the ground. That’s how quickly his legs gave out from underneath him.

“Even if they weren’t directly influencing you,” Jeno continued, “their will still brought you here.”

“Demons can’t be completely bad,” said Guanheng, “if it also wants to remove the baron from power.”

A good point. But who would Sicheng even know that would have such a dark, fiery origin? “Surely, it can’t be the priest I follow.” He muttered. “Please don’t tell me it’s one of the altar boys…”

Kun hummed in contemplation. “It couldn’t possibly be one of the members of the rogue’s guild. They are all pretty low-key and demons aren’t exactly subtle. I’m sure I’d notice one of the fiends hanging around.”

Guanheng took a moment to think about it. “There’s a chance it’s one of my classmates at the training facility. I do hear strange noises coming from the barracks in the evenings.”

Jeno bit his bottom lip. He obviously knew who it was but the idea of making a game out of it was too sweet to pass up. “It’s someone who would have informed you about tonight’s events. Someone who would have set you on this path.”

“My father,” Kun asked, eyes wide. He shifted around a little, making the pieces of his armor jingle and clank. “He was the one who handed me the second-rate job.” He turned to Sicheng. “No offense.”

“No. It’s my professor,” said Guanheng. “If it weren’t for their ridiculous scholastic demands, I wouldn’t have been out so late tonight.”

They continued to go back and forth a bit.

“The innkeeper,” said Kun.

“That blacksmith who lives out in the woods,” Guanheng offered.

“The dodgy-looking guard who looked at me funny outside the city gates.”

“Is it you, Jeno? Are you the infernal beast?”

Jeno giggled and shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

Sicheng had been mulling it over all of this time and, finally, the last piece of the puzzle clicked into place. He yelled, “It’s that lousy gossip Xiao Dejun!” He  _ knew _ there was something off about that guy! “Oooh, what a snake. What a snake! He was hiding right in plain sight.”

Jeno didn’t seem a lick surprised so Sicheng had to have been right.

Guanheng pouted. “Just because you two don’t get along doesn’t mean he’s an actual demon or anything.”

“Right,” said Kun. “You don’t have to be so mean, sweet Sicheng. He’s not even here to hear you.”

“Oh, I know I’m right,” said Sicheng. He pried himself free of Kun’s arm around him and began pacing up and down a small section of the dirt path. “No wonder my skin crawls whenever I see him. It’s the divine power that resides within me begging me to damn him back to the nine hells!”

“Can you do that,” Guanheng asked.

“I don’t know but I will try. I’m very angry and very determined and I’m positive I can do anything with a pointy enough knife.”

“Sicheng, take it easy. You don’t have to scream,” Kun said.

“You can’t really think Dejun is the demon,” Guanheng cried out.

Sicheng stopped his pacing. “Of course I do! Are you telling me he really doesn’t creep you out? He’s like… stupidly pretty and I’ve seen his eyes do this wicked flicker and I can almost guarantee that he controls people through his singing voice.”

“He’s just a gossipmonger. A celebrity,” Guanheng defended his idol. “Just because he knows everything doesn’t mean he knows  _ everything _ .”

Sicheng was not convinced. Or, rather, he was completely and entirely convinced. “There is no gossip. There are no rumors. He just says all of that to keep his cover. Dejun knows all of this world’s secret information because he’s not  _ from here  _ and thus isn’t restricted by logic or time.” That would explain how Dejun always seemed to show up whenever Sicheng did not want to be found. 

“You’ve got this all wrong,” said Guanheng. He pulled away from Kun to follow Sicheng a bit up the road. He grabbed the elf by the shoulder and leaned into his face. “It’s not Xiao Dejun.”

“It  _ is _ Xiao Dejun,” said Jeno. 

“Well I’ll be,” Kun huffed. “Then who is the warlock? Someone else we know?” 

“Probably not. As the warlock isolates himself in the dead lands. The demon is his eyes. I am his hands. We do the work. He guides us.”

“And now you two are guiding us,” confirmed Kun. His voice lost its usual steady confidence when he asked, “It really can only be us?”

Jeno nodded. “It has to be. These things have long since been set in motion.”

Sicheng didn’t like the sound of that. He was actively against the notion of fate and destiny, which was probably a very odd stance for a man of such strong faith to have. Then again, he was never really supposed to be a cleric. Even  _ that _ had been decided for him by someone else. He said, “This whole night, Dejun’s been tugging us along like we’re but puppets on strings.”

Now that Sicheng thought back on it, wasn’t it very strange? There was no way Dejun should know about any of the things they were getting up to tonight. Sicheng had been secretly saving up the money to hire an assassin for over a year. Only Yuta and a handful of other elves knew of his plan but elves wouldn’t snitch. Elves swore oaths and promises through blood and there wasn’t a spell or curse on this earth strong enough to break such an oath. Additionally, Sicheng had written the letter to the King of Stealth with a quill that stretched and skewed his handwriting and he’d anonymously left the letter and the money in the rogue guild’s appropriate post box asking one of the children from the congregation for help. Sicheng had even gone through such great trouble to disguise himself and meet up with the assassin in an appropriately dark and shady back alley! Yet that lousy gossip Xiao Dejun had been showing up all over town to offer the next step Sicheng should take. Or to point them in the direction of their next destination. In subtle but significant ways, he reminded them that they were but tiny little cogs in the grand machine of fate.

And Sicheng wanted to make all of his own decisions. 

His life wasn’t for destiny. It wasn’t to fulfill some prophecy. 

He wasn’t just another chess piece in some demon’s silly game!

Guanheng and Kun, on the other hand, didn’t appear to be half as bothered by this as they should have been. 

“If Dejun’s on our side like this, I wonder if I can convince him to give me an autograph,” said the warrior who knew spells.

“I still wouldn’t mind having a little sit-down with the warlock. Have some tea,” said the rogue who dressed in heavy armor.

“This is all very awful and I refuse to further participate,” said the violent mage who’d sworn an oath of non-violence.

“Come now, Sicheng,” said Kun. “Your goal is but an hour away. 

Guanheng added, “You can drive your blade through the baron’s cold heart just like you’ve always dreamed.”

“No,” said Sicheng. “I hired an assassin for that.”

“But don’t you get it, Sicheng,” said Guanheng, “we have to do this as the three of us.”

Because some old lady in front of a tent told them so?

Sicheng wondered if even what she had said to them was part of the demon’s machinations.

He wondered if the long year of saving up the gold pieces was also a struggle forced on him by Xiao Dejun’s lousy whims.

“Whatever it is you have to do, you can do it on your own. I’m going home.” Sicheng turned to head back the way they came, back to the marshlands, back to town.

“Sicheng,” Guanheng shouted at his back. He tried to grab the cleric’s cloak but Sicheng twisted out of the younger’s man’s grasp. “Sicheng, don’t you get it? This is bigger than just the three of us.”

“The three of us?” Sicheng repeated. Earlier in the night, that would have thrilled him. He would have been secretly excited to share such an important, brilliant thing with such beautiful people.

But now…

“I don’t think I want any part of that, either.”

Jeno, who had been watching quietly and curiously all this while, stiffened at the prospect. “But the warlock said--”

“Screw what the warlock said,” Sicheng bellowed.

Everything from the King of Stealth’s son showing up in the alley, to he and Kun walking up the street just in time to see Guanheng knock those thugs down a peg… Had it all been Dejun’s sneaky plan all along? 

Was Sicheng watching the suffering and torment of his elf brothers and sisters also part of some foul omnipotent beast’s plans?

Sicheng said something he probably shouldn’t have. “It’s Xiao Dejun’s devil magic that made me fall for the two of you.” And he looked first at Guanheng and then at Kun, not caring about their astonished faces. “Yuta was right. I never should have let the love in.”

So he swallowed hard, squeezed his eyes shut and locked the love back out.


	16. Past The Halfway Point

Anger was very, very pointy and it could keep all manner of dangerous things away, but, more often than not, pointy things poked holes in things that shouldn’t have holes poked into them.

In other words, the moment the words were out of Sicheng’s mouth, he kind of regretted them.

“Sicheng,” Guanheng cried out. Literally cried. His voice cracked in half with a sob and they all had to wait several seconds as he wrestled breath back into his lungs to speak. “Surely you didn’t mean that! We’ve come all this way together. Why run away now?”

Run away?

“Guanheng,” Kun said, his voice sharp. His armor made an uncharacteristic amount of noise as he stepped towards Guanheng and eased an arm around the younger man’s trembling shoulders. “Let’s not blame him for what he feels.”

“But he’s acting silly,” Guanheng choked out.

Kun raised a gloved hand and wiped the dampness off of Guanheng’s cheeks.

Sicheng’s heart may have broken a little at the sight. They looked so much better without him. “You don’t need me,” he grunted. He swallowed down his regret and increased the length and pointiness of his anger, becoming a hedgehog of defensiveness. “I gave you the money!” He pointed at Kun. “I shouldn’t have to come all this way with you. I shouldn’t have even had to leave the tavern tonight!”

“Everyone,” said Jeno, cutting in. “I am so sorry. I didn’t think that what I said would explode like this.”

Kun said, “It’s not your fault. There are other things at play here.”

Jeno’s face was still scrunched up in displeasure. “Xiao Dejun’s a demon but I doubt he would purposefully trick emotions out of you all.”

The warrior, the rogue and the mage all fell silent. Or as silent as they could be with Guanheng barely managing to hold back his sniffles and gasps.

“Really, I only said all of those things to let you know that Dejun is helping you all in your quest to kill the baron. I just said that he knows that you will need a full party to succeed.” Jeno ran a hand through his raven-black hair. “I didn’t mean for any of you to question the relationship you had forged.”

“It’s a forgery, alright,” Sicheng said. “As fake as the teapots that the wily merchant at the docks tries to sell.”

Guanheng was still crying. His small fists were bunched into the front of his mage robes like he was trying to wring his own heart out of his chest. “How could you say that, Sicheng,” he demanded. “How can you possibly think that my feelings for you aren’t real?” He pried himself free of Kun’s arm, took two stumbling steps and made a grab for Sicheng’s grimy, mud-soaked cloak. 

“Unhand me,” Sicheng snarled, jerking out of the younger boy’s grip. It hurt him deep that the one time he  _ didn’t _ want Guanheng to listen to him, the mage dipped his head and backed away. 

Sicheng stood there shaking, surprised that his own thrashing heart and hurricane thoughts hadn’t started leaking out of his face as messy tears.

Guanheng returned to Kun’s arms, slipping into the older man’s hold like it was only for him.

“Just go on,” Sicheng said. “You two don’t need me.”

“But this night is all about you, Sicheng,” said Kun. “After all of that talk of wanting to land the killing blow on the baron, you’re passing it off to us?”

Sicheng screamed. Just nonverbal frustration tearing out of his mouth and echoing between the bony, dead limbs of the trees. He wasn’t even talking about tonight’s mission. He was talking about this triangle love of theirs and how what was supposed to be equilateral had just become terribly isosceles, the two points moving farther and farther away from him.

Jeno attempted to redirect the conversation. “We’re running out of time to set up the trap. If we’re going to ensnare the baron, we need to start making preparations now.”

They all fell into a cold silence.

Guanheng’s sobs had quieted, leaving only the low whistle of the wind as their accompaniment.

Kun looked up at Sicheng and Sicheng’s heart hurt because Kun was so beautiful and he looked so  _ hurt _ . “What are you going to do, Sicheng?” His voice held the tiniest flame of hope in the question. Even after everything Sicheng had done and said, Kun was still willing to welcome him back. Kun lifted his free arm and stretched out a hand towards Sicheng. “We can talk this out,” he said. “We can come up with something that works. We don’t have to fight.”

And Sicheng didn’t want to fight. He wanted to go running into Kun’s arms and let himself be vulnerable but he was so used to carrying pointy things, he was so used to  _ being _ pointy, that it was almost impossible for him to even imagine being soft.

He didn’t have any time to make a decision.

A rumbling noise like thunder shook the ground beneath their feet.

Had the weather turned? Sicheng raised his face to the sky but there were hardly any clouds in sight. There was no approaching storm.

But there  _ were _ approaching horses.

“The baron,” said Sicheng.

“Quickly,” Jeno yelled. “To the brush!” He pulled a vial of reddish-orange liquid from beneath the collar of his shirt and hurled it at the ruins of the wooden carriage at the side of the road.

Nearly instantly, the wagon burst into flames. The heat was searing. Stinging. The light was bright. Sudden. Dazzling.

Sicheng was so stunned by the sudden inferno that he was rooted to the spot even as he heard the horses thunder closer and closer.

Guanheng grabbed Sicheng by the arm and pulled and pulled until he could get the man moving, get him running.

Together, they ran towards the thick underbrush at the side of the road where Kun was already waiting. Where Jeno was already notching an arrow on his bowstring and aiming through the leaves.

Guanheng didn’t let go. Even after he tugged Sicheng through the branches. Even after Sicheng slipped a hand beneath his cloak and pulled free a gleaming, pointy dagger.

They could see the horses now. They were the baron’s infamous cavalry, every steed with snow-white hair, the beasts looking like ghoulish phantoms beneath the blue-silver glow of the moon.

There were at least a dozen of the horses and sitting astride every single one was a member of the baron’s elite guard. Their plumed helmets danced in the wind of their advance. Their armor glinted first silver and then orange as they neared the flaming wagon.

Sicheng saw him.

Bringing up the rear. Tall and muscular and carrying a spear tipped in solid gold.

The baron.

“We need you,” Guanheng said, his whispered voice barely audible over the crackle and roar of the towering flames. 

Sicheng looked over at him. The warrior’s eyes were still red-rimmed from all of his crying but his face was made of fresh steel, his gaze hardened. Sicheng could kiss his mouth. He could do that. He was allowed. But he refrained.

Guanheng said, “Sicheng, please… We can’t do this without you.” He used his free hand to draw one of his wands from the depths of his sleeve. “We need you.”

And maybe, just maybe, Sicheng believed him.


	17. I'm Not Baby, I Want Revolution

Sicheng had experienced fire and battle and shadowy fear like this before.

It had been over a decade ago, nearly two now, when the baron and his men had mounted that first attack on the elves in the forest. When those greedy humans had first decided that the town and farmlands that they already had were not enough and that they needed  _ more _ . That they needed the forests and the fertile land in the valley too.

Sicheng remembered exactly how his peace had been disrupted. He could recall the exact day and hour, what the weather was like and the exact outfit he had on. That’s how engraved into his soul that tragic night was. He had been at home eating a meal with his family when the alarms had first been raised. Those bells that got louder and louder and closer and closer outside as the signal was passed from one end of the valley to the next. It was so sudden. Sicheng and his parents had to leave their meals hot and steaming on the dining table as they packed and prepared. 

_ Run _ , said his mother. 

_ Run _ , said his father. 

_ We’ll catch up to you _ . 

_ We will catch up with you. _

And then the two of them pushed him out of the small hut’s side window and into the night but, perhaps even then, it was too late. For them. For him. For the people who lived in the valley. 

The baron’s men had breached the perimeter of the elf city and had already begun setting fires. 

Sicheng ran and ran. Towards the river, he thought, where it would be most safe.

He desperately needed to believe that or else there would be no point in running.

He ran past the school. Past the tower of rope ladders and wooden platforms that led from the ground level up and up into the forest canopy. He ran past the river bank where the fisher’s boats were moored. 

Sicheng saw Yuta, not even a teenager, standing side by side with his father, facing off against a crowd of men. Yuta’s sword was drawn, held at the ready and already caked red with human blood. 

Sicheng kept running. He just ran and ran towards the outskirts of town. Closer to what he thought was freedom.

He spotted Taeil, so small and fragile and always sickly. The frail elf let out a battle cry, louder than Sicheng thought his weak lungs capable, and brought down a sword across the neck of an invader.

Sicheng wanted to fight but he had no weapons. No blades. No bow or arrows. He was still young. Still untrained. All he had was the raging magic in his heart, the manifestation of his covenant with the god of the night. Sicheng wanted to call on that power. He wanted to pull on that string deep in his soul, beseech his god and wish for total blackness to swamp the valley. The elves would be able to see. The humans would practically be blind. It would give them an advantage. The elves could turn the tide yet! They could win this if he could concentrate. But as soon as Sicheng had a handle on the spell, he saw movement ahead of him at the river. The one place he thought he could escape to. 

The baron himself burst through the trees on his white horse. 

Sicheng watched in terror as the baron’s men charged across the water towards him, towards the town. They held swords and spears and crossbows. Some carried the flags bearing the baron’s insignia and the sight of them streaking in the wind, lit by fire, would burn deep into Sicheng’s nightmares for weeks.

The armored men reached the other side of the river bank and stormed the town. They knocked over fences, broke into homes, drew their weapons on fleeing, innocent elves. The men trampled the altar to the god of night right before Sicheng’s eyes and, like having his heart broken into a thousand pieces, he felt his ties to the god of night be painfully severed. 

Sicheng stood there, powerless and weak, gasping for breath, choking on smoke and nauseous from the stench of blood.

“Sicheng!” It was Yuta’s strong voice. “We have to go!” The older boy’s strong arms wrapped tight around Sicheng’s torso and dragged him out of the way of the charging horses. They were small and nimble children and slipped into the shadows between two huts before they were spotted. 

They could have escaped, but Sicheng dug his heels in and fought against Yuta’s hold on him until he had brought them to a halt. He turned around to watch, as if he couldn’t live unless he absorbed every fiery image.

The baron was a terrifying being. An unnaturally large man on an unnaturally large horse, cutting down swaths of elves with every swing of his unnaturally large spear.

Sicheng remembered the foul smell of rot and blood and smoke in the air. He remembered the anger and hate in the barbaric screams of the baron’s men. He remembered the ice cold fright in the shrieks of the elves. 

He had been only a child back then, forced to watch the only home he’d ever known be mowed down.

The baron’s men took axes and saws and torches to the trees. 

And here that man was. Right in front of him. Still alive somehow.

Still alive.

Somehow.

But not for long.

Sicheng shook his head to free himself of the fear that was attached to those distant memories. Things were going to be different this time. Back then, he’d been a child who knew nothing about the cruelty and heartlessness of the world. Now he was an adult. Now he was cruel. Now he was heartless. He had to become like this just to stand a chance against such a dastardly tyrant. He had to surround his heart in pointy bits and collect dozens and dozens of pointy things in order to protect all the softness deep within him that he still held dear.

He watched as the horses galloped past them. Some of the men held torches above their heads and the orange flames illuminated the darkness that sat heavy across the marshlands. Two of the horses moved considerably slower than the rest, pulling a wooden carriage behind them. It was a well-crafted thing, stupidly ornate.

Someone important was inside. And the baron himself seemed to be in charge of protecting whoever that was. 

Jeno cursed. “They aren’t even slowing. It’s as if they do not see the fire.”

Sicheng stood up. He didn’t care about hiding or staying behind cover. He had sworn an oath! He had sliced open his palm and promised on his own dripping blood that he would not rest until he put the baron in the ground. Sicheng reversed his grip on his dagger, more than ready to plunge it into a man’s heart.

“Sicheng,” Guanheng warned. 

Kun hissed at him, “Get down before they see you. We have to come up with another plan!”

But Sicheng didn’t care about any plan. There was no longer time for a plan! He only cared about an opportunity. And that opportunity was riding pretty in a carriage. Sicheng didn’t want to believe in destiny. He didn’t want to believe that his actions had already been predetermined by some unfeeling, ever-watching god. But if Xiao Dejun said that the baron’s carriage broke down, then that was as good a set of instructions as any. Sicheng pushed through the brush, not even caring that the scraggly branches scratched at his arms and legs and tore the cloak’s hood from off of his head.

Jeno fired an arrow. It struck one of the white horses pulling the carriage in the flank but the beast charged past without acknowledging the pain.

The baron and his men rode on, not even slowing down to investigate the raging wagon fire. Of course they wouldn’t slow down. Such bastards wouldn’t stop to help a soul. Already, the cavalry were entirely past the young men and their hiding spot. It would only take seconds before the horses were out of sight up the road.

Sicheng had to act now.

He took one step forward. Two step forwards. Three.

Then he stepped  _ sideways _ into the deepest part of the shadows.

Sicheng entered stealth.


	18. A [noun] Of [noun] And [noun]

The world of shadows was only slightly sideways from the physical plane. Not in the same direction as the land of the dead, thank goodness, and definitely not anywhere close to the demon realm. The shadows weren’t all that far away after all. They were just a little bit to the left. And slightly down. Like making the most minor of adjustments to the placement of a painting on a wall.

It only took the bare minimum of effort to get over there once you knew what you were doing.

The angle could be tricky, sometimes, as the gap was very thin and quite easy to overshoot. The footwork required was precise and needed to be done in one specific order--like a dance step--but Sicheng had years and years of practice trying to be sneaky so he always got the movement right on the first attempt. 

Just forward, forward, twist, forward, sideways. Like a leap of faith.

That was all it took to become invisible. To silence his footsteps. To move so quickly that he wasn’t even a blur. That he wasn’t even a shadow. 

Sicheng’s spiritual connection to the god of the night had been thoroughly severed on that tragic evening so many years ago but, perhaps, a bit of the god’s magic still stirred within his being if Sicheng could travel through darkness with such ease, even after devoting himself to the goddess of the harvest.

It was almost as if he carried them both with him.

It was like he could love more than one at a time.

Sicheng ran faster and faster. With the aid of the shadows, he moved far more quickly than even the most athletic of beings could. 

Down the path he went. Farther and farther away from the marshes and sagging willow trees. Closer and closer to the dried-out, salted earth of the dead lands.

Sicheng was vaguely aware of a commotion behind him.  _ Clang! Clang! Clang! _ It was Kun pounding his gloved fist against the breastplate of his armor set, making the metal ring out. Causing a distraction. Turning himself into a target.

In front of him, Sicheng saw the baron’s men slow their horses and turn their heads as they assessed the change in the situation, but even though Sicheng had only taken a shallow step into stealth, he was still too deep in the shadows to properly hear the baron’s shouted command. No matter. He would see this to its end now that he had started it. Even if he had to fight his way out of this tooth and nail. He couldn’t waste too much time doubting himself. He had to do this quickly or Kun’s life would be in danger. Guanheng’s life would be in danger. Jeno’s. Sicheng had to do this  _ now _ or there would be no other chance. 

All they had done tonight, all they had gone through, it wouldn’t matter at all if he didn’t do this right.

It needed to matter. It needed to  _ mean something _ .

Determined, Sicheng ran even harder. Even faster.

As Sicheng had temporarily left the physical plane, he was slightly excused from its physics. He stepped up into the air as if he were ascending a flight of stairs and then leaped forward towards the horse-drawn carriage’s back window. Even with his increased speed, the horses were swift and well-trained beasts and he just barely managed to grip the wooden sill with both hands before he fell, his shabby leather boots scrambling for purchase on the sleek, expensive wood.

With the last of his strength, he hauled himself up over the sill and practically threw himself inside. All without making a sound. Without moving a thing.

The shadows protected him from the brunt of the impact as he hit the floor and Sicheng tucked his long body into a rather graceful roll before he came to a stop in the tight, dark corner of the carriage. Every muscle in his body was tense. Just in case he needed to fight.

The elven blood in his veins gave him the sight to see in the cramped, poorly-lit interior. On the carriage’s one, plush, velvet-covered seat sat a man in light-colored silken clothes that every bit matched the fancy, lush quality of the carriage itself.

And Sicheng hadn’t been half as stealthy as he needed to be in this situation because the young man sat up straight and asked, “Who is there?”

Sicheng held his breath and remained still. He was in stealth. Wrapped in shadow. Invisible. The man’s gaze drifted right over him. Once. Twice. He was still unseen.

But the man still sensed him somehow. A hardened edge of authority crept into his voice as he asked, “Who is in here with me?”

Sicheng looked the man up and down. He was tall but skinny. Almost delicate. He attempted to sound brave but his spindly fingers dug into the embroidered silk of his robe and Sicheng could see, even in the low light, how badly he trembled.

The man said, “Show yourself or I’ll scre--”

Sicheng kept a tight grip on his dagger but he peeled the layers of shadow away and revealed himself to the finely-dressed man. The man took notice of the movement. He turned his head and met Sicheng’s gaze. Sicheng saw the surprise on the man’s face. Saw his eyes go wide and his mouth fall open as, to his eyes, someone appeared out of thin air on the wooden floor in front of him. But all Sicheng had to do was hold a finger up to his lips to stop the man from screaming and, more than likely, giving Sicheng away.

“Who are--”

Sicheng closed the gap between them. Pressed his finger to the man’s lips.

When Sicheng was certain the man wouldn’t panic, Sicheng pulled his hand away from the man’s mouth and stood up on his feet. He peered out of the back window and almost screamed in panic himself when he realized just how far the fast-moving carriage had taken him in the short pile of seconds that had passed since he left the others. 

A few of the baron’s men had turned back around on their horses to engage the others in combat. Sicheng could barely see the burning wagon on the very edge of the horizon. He could barely see Kun’s armor glinting gold in the firelight. He could barely see Guanheng’s starlight sword arc through the night sky like a comet in the distance. Even Jeno was but a whirl of movement as the archer fired arrow after arrow.

They needed him out there.

But Sicheng  _ needed _ to be here. 

The carriage rattled and shook something fierce as the two white horses pulled it farther out into the wilderness. Away from any known beaten trails and out into the uncharted nothingness that blurred the edge of every map.

Sicheng turned back to the man and asked the first of his many questions. “Who are you?”

The finely-dressed man simply turned the question back around on him. “I can ask you the same thing.”

Sicheng leaned close to the man’s face--nose to cheek--and deeply inhaled, ignoring the man’s startled gasp. Sicheng did not smell a drop of elf blood in the man’s veins. In fact, he didn’t catch a whiff of even the lightest of magic. 

Wherever this man came from, they carried no blessings from the gods.

Sicheng asked his next question. “Where are they taking you?”

“Back home,” the boy stated.

And he  _ was _ a boy. The longer Sicheng looked at him, the younger, smaller and more frightened he appeared, even though he was tall and dressed in such finery, with gold around his neck and wrists. Sicheng tilted his head, “You _ live _ out in the dead lands?”

The boy met his gaze. “Only simpletons believe there is no life on the sea of sand.”

Now that Sicheng remembered, Jeno had hinted at the fact that he’d run out into the dead lands to escape the fiery, bloody massacre all those years ago. He’d come out here. Somewhere. Met that foul warlock who fraternized with demons out here. 

Somewhere.

_ The dead lands do not continue forever _ , Sicheng remembered Jeno’s words.

The carriage bounced over a particularly rough patch of earth. Sicheng nearly lost his footing. The boy nearly slid right off of the seat.

The movement made Sicheng pay attention to a detail he’d skimmed over. The gold around the boy’s neck and wrists and even his ankles… There were chains attached to them.

This was no passenger. This was a prisoner.

Sicheng had a whole list of questions to ask but he tossed them all aside to only ask one: “Why did the baron bring you here?”

And the question must have caught the boy off-guard because he could only stare up at Sicheng for several long open-mouthed seconds.

Sicheng had seen that look before. That look of pity or perhaps even disgust when a human caught sight of his pointed ears, when they really paid attention to the sharpness of his eyes.  _ You’re an elf!  _ And the exclamation was usually accompanied by a scream of fright.

The boy lowered his gaze. When he spoke, his voice shook like leaves on a tree. “T-the baron knows my p-p-p-people excel with metalworking. He m-made me draw him s-s-schema-- schematics and blueprints for a construct and forced me to sign a trade deal to supply him w-w-with the metal and parts and labor he needs to build them.”

“Construct?” Sicheng repeated. He had never heard the word before.

“A… A-an iron m-man. Lifeless and strong and o-o-obedient. We use them to help us build but he will use them as s-soldiers.”

And what was left that the baron still needed soldiers? What possibly remained for the baron to stomp on and destroy?

Sicheng would pull the baron’s tongue out through his neck. He swore it!

The opportunity to do so would come to him faster than he anticipated.

Even though they were still thundering across the parched, cracked earth of the dead lands, the carriage door flew open, letting in a burst of cool, dry, gritty wind.

Sicheng didn’t even have a moment to collect his bearings or sweep into stealth before a gold-tipped spear came hurtling at his head.


	19. Trinity

Instinct took over and, like a puppet on strings, Sicheng moved almost without meaning to.

He threw his weight and rolled backwards to avoid being skewered but even that was hardly enough. The spear was so long and the giant baron’s reach so immense, that the weapon still grazed Sicheng’s arm and he hissed as he felt the sharp tip of it break skin, even through the material of his tunic. Sicheng only had to glance down for a second before he saw the red of his blood stain his sleeve. It was just a shallow cut, he knew, but it was a sobering reminder that his life was very much at risk.

“You will not continue your conquest with these iron soldiers,” Sicheng shouted.

“And who are you to stop me,” the baron growled out. It had to be difficult to hold his spear so steady while on horseback, while keeping pace with the bouncing, swaying carriage, but the baron did it effortlessly. Want to know something else he did effortlessly? He thrust his spear forward, aiming the sharp point at Sicheng’s chest.

Sicheng lunged sideways only to collide with the bony knees of the imprisoned boy who shared the carriage. The obstruction didn’t allow Sicheng to get entirely out of the way of the spear and he watched in horror as the spear ripped a tear through his cloak.

Sicheng’s terror only lasted a moment. With such a ragged hole, he would look well and properly suspicious now. He would look every bit the threatening, shadowy rogue that he was attempting to emulate!

He could not stay pleased with himself long. The baron’s spear plunged through the air towards his head and Sicheng hardly managed to toss himself sideways to avoid it in time.

The baron was not considerate enough to wait for him to recover. He was already attacking again. A swing that would have removed Sicheng’s head from his neck if he hadn’t thrown himself to the carriage floor, the breath leaving his lungs from the impact. Sicheng glared up at the baron. At his long, rectangular face and gleaming eyes. At his sneer.

It was not all too different from coming up on a wild wolf out in the woods, teeth bared and hackles raised, hunting the sweet scent of blood.

All of the anger that had fueled Sicheng up until now petered out in an instant. So viscerally, so physically, that he was convinced he’d soiled his pants.

A terrifying truth was revealed to him then. He was up against a foe he could not face alone.

“Remove yourself from this carriage,” shouted the baron so that he could be heard over the thunder of horse hooves, “or be removed.”

Sicheng must have waited too long to take action because the baron thrust the spear forward yet again. Sicheng rolled sideways just in time to avoid being impaled. The floor of the carriage tore and splintered right where his shoulder had been a breath before.

The baron pried his spear free from the wood, further damaging the carriage. He swung his weapon again, like he was bringing down an executioner’s axe on Sicheng’s neck.

Sicheng rolled over onto his hands and knees and forced himself upright. He wanted to speak. He wanted to rant and curse this foul, evil man. His hatred burned hot and bright. His anger was deep like an ocean. Years and years of pent-up resentment begged to be let loose from his tongue, but Sicheng’s throat was bone dry with fear and he could hardly manage a croak. He could barely suck in a breath. 

He had sworn an oath to kill the baron or die trying.

It’s just that… he didn’t actually want to die.

His heart raced in his chest. His vision swam with fear. His thoughts circled around his head like a raging, destructive typhoon. If he died here, the elves would never know revenge. They would never have peace. If he died here, he would never get to see Kun and Guanheng again. He hated them. But he loved them. He missed them. A single tear pooled in the corner of Sicheng’s eye.

The baron was already moving to strike. His spear would go directly into Sicheng’s heart.

Two more seconds and it would all be over, but--

The young boy strapped down in chains squealed, “Watch out!”

His shrill, panicked voice was enough to yank Sicheng out of his thoughts.

He lifted his dagger to deflect the blow that would have killed him. The bell-like clang of metal against metal echoed in the small, moving carriage. The impact of blade against blade created a shower of orange sparks that illuminated the captive boy’s terrified face.

Sicheng would not die here. He had a mission. A baron to kill. He had people waiting for him!

The baron thrust his spear forward again but Sicheng was prepared. He spun sideways, getting to his feet, and used the long blade of his dagger to parry the spear, sending the sharp tip of it up and away from his body.

“Go,” the imprisoned boy snapped. “If you stay here, you’ll kill us both!”

Sicheng nearly lost his balance as the carriage bounced and jolted across the uneven landscape of the dead lands. “But what about--”

The boy interrupted him. “I will be fine. Leave or die.”

The baron’s next spear swing put a hole through the carriage wall. 

Sicheng couldn’t stay here. He had to leave. He had to get back to the others. Every moment he remained on the carriage took him farther and farther away from the one place he felt was safe. “What is your name,” Sicheng asked him, but he was already leaping up onto the seat of the carriage and making a daredevil leap towards the open back window.

The boy squeaked out his name, as if afraid to reveal it, but Sicheng was an elf. He heard anyway. “Jisung.”

And then Sicheng was out of the window, sailing through the air, arms and legs flailing as gravity snatched him by the collar of his throat and dragged him to the ground. Sicheng ducked into a roll as he landed, narrowly avoiding a broken neck, but the carriage had been moving so fast that Sicheng  _ kept _ rolling. Head over heels. His brain rattled in his skull. His lungs burned. His muscles seemed to melt beneath the pain. 

At last, Sicheng tumbled to a stop. He was sore and knocked half-senseless and exhausted like he’d never been before. Yellowish dust from the dead lands billowed up and around him in thick, swirling clouds, choking him up despite how beautifully it all glittered under the starlight of the dark, open sky. 

It felt like an eternity passed before Sicheng’s ears stopped ringing. He sat up and looked around him. The dead lands lived up to their namesake. There was nothing but dried, cracked earth in every direction. The monotony of it all broken up only occasionally by the hazy silhouettes of distant mountains. Only the quick-moving plume of dust on the horizon clued Sicheng in on the direction the baron’s carriage was headed.

Sicheng pushed himself to his feet. When he swallowed, he tasted blood. Miraculously, he still clutched his dagger in his hand. He assessed it for damage and then sheathed it at his waist along with several of his other pointy bits and sharp knicknacks. As the adrenaline coursing through his veins filtered out of his blood, the dull ache of his muscles and bones sank into him. How on earth would he ever get back home? Which direction did he even need to go?

Unsure of himself, and more afraid than he ever thought he would be, Sicheng wandered.

The dead lands stretched endlessly in every direction. Monotonous. Quiet. Still. There didn’t even seem to be any wind and the silence was so thick and weighted that Sicheng sang hymns just to place some sort of noise out into the world.

“Did Jeno lie to me,” he choked out. “Do the dead lands  _ really _ end?” But they must, he thought. For the baron wouldn’t be making an effort to cross it if there wasn’t anything on the other side. And that Jisung boy had called Sicheng foolish for thinking that no life could thrive on the sea of sand.

Even the warlock and that foul demon Xiao Dejun lived out here. 

Sicheng paused to catch his breath. All his life, he had been told the dead lands were an endless, dried-out waste. An entire ocean drained by the whim of a long-dead god. He had been taught to fear the dead lands and had always imagined that it was some dark, chaotic place that was home to hordes of foul beasts and evil curses. But as he resumed walking, he forced himself to change those beliefs. 

The dead lands were like this, empty and lifeless, because no gods dared tread here. 

He doubted the goddess of the harvest would hear him if he beseeched her out here. He doubted he could get a single flower to grow from such spoiled, blighted earth.

Sicheng gave up. He sat down on the ground and heaved a defeated sigh. He had been walking for what felt like an eternity, but the world around him had not changed. It was impossible to gauge distance. It was impossible to tell if he was even going in the right direction.

He forced himself to accept that he was well and truly lost. 

And it broke him.

“I’m so sorry,” he wheezed, dehydrated and weary. “If I could apologize a thousand times, I would.” No one was around to hear him so he let himself be broken and vulnerable. He allowed himself to be soft. “Kun, I’m so sorry for always pushing you away. I’m sorry for never believing in you. And Guanheng… I never should have yelled at you. I never should have said that what the three of us had wasn’t real.” He wiped dust and sand and sweat and tears off his chin and cheeks and forehead. He couldn’t tell if the sky was lightening with dawn or if he was merely seconds away from passing out. “If I could see you two one more time,” he bargained, “I’ll never let either of you go.”

No sooner had the wish left his mouth than he heard the distant rhythm of horse hooves.

Even with his heightened senses, it was difficult to gauge which direction the sound was coming from out in the stark void of the dead lands. But as the noise rumbled closer, the direction became more clear.

Sicheng turned his head. Barreling towards him across the flat, barren wasteland was a cloud of dust. Horses. Three of them, he made out. All with the snow-white fur of the baron’s cavalry. 

“Curses,” he growled. His hands moved beneath his cloak and he pulled free two of his longer knives, one in each hand. 

He was entirely defenseless. There was no place to hide out here and he could tell from the shouted voices that he had been spotted and the trajectory of the horses changed, heading straight towards him. Sicheng didn’t have the strength to enter stealth. Let alone  _ stand up _ .

The horses drew closer and closer. The men riding them shouted commands to get the beasts to slow and stop.

Sicheng closed his eyes and waited to be set upon by the baron’s merciless men, but--

“It is you, my lovely Sicheng. It really  _ is _ you.”

Sicheng wondered if such a familiar voice was a hallucination. “Kun?” He opened his eyes.

It was no hallucination. Kun dropped down from the saddle of his horse. “I am here, my love.” He looked magnificent. His armor gleamed in the first rose gold rays of dawn. He was every bit the hero he claimed to be.

Sicheng had been weak down to his very bones a mere breath ago but now he was full of determination and vigor. He sheathed his knives, got up to his feet and all but threw himself into Kun’s outstretched arms. Kun’s grip was strong and sturdy and Sicheng felt safe. He let himself relax. He allowed himself to  _ collapse _ . “I thought I would never see you again,” Sicheng said, his voice dry and cracked like the ground he stood on. 

“I am here,” Kun repeated. Even though his bulky helmet covered the majority of his face and blood that wasn’t his was splattered across the rest, there was no mistaking the width of his smile. There was no hiding the sparkle of adoration in his eyes. Even after the silly, destructive words Sicheng had hurled at him earlier that night.

Sicheng took a deep breath. He mustered his bravery. “I missed you.” And then he kissed Kun. Because he always knew that he could but only now did he let himself  _ want _ to. Kun kissed him back. Soft. Slow. As rigid as he felt clad in all of that armor, he softened to putty as Sicheng pressed forward and slipped his tongue between Kun’s pillowy pink lips. Sicheng could practically taste the man’s joy and relief on the tip of his tongue.

“You’re hurt,” Guanheng wailed. He was at Sicheng’s side, gingerly poking at Sicheng’s bloodstained sleeve.

Sicheng pulled himself off of Kun’s mouth. “It is just a scratch,” he reassured the younger man. 

“But you’re bleeding wickedly,” insisted Guanheng. He poked and prodded at Sicheng’s arm until he found the place just above Sicheng’s elbow that made the man wince and stiffen. “What happened to you?”

“I came face to face with the baron,” Sicheng admitted.

That made Guanheng’s eyes go wide. They were red-rimmed with tiredness and worry and oncoming tears. “What did he say? How badly did he hurt you?”

“It’s a shallow cut,” Sicheng raised his voice, half-annoyed. But then he immediately softened. Like a dull knife only useful for spreading butter. “Our separation hurt me worse.” Then he leaned forward into the narrow space between their faces.

Guanheng knew what he wanted immediately. And he wanted it too. Grinning, Guanheng closed the distance between their mouths and kissed Sicheng. Hungry and eager. Like he’d finally been allowed to have something he’d been patiently waiting for. Sicheng was almost overwhelmed by him, that’s how desperately Guanheng kissed him. But then, after displaying a great deal of restraint, Guanheng pulled back. “I missed you too.”

Kun unwrapped his arm from around Sicheng’s waist only to pull Guanheng into an equally tight embrace. The two of them kissed. Warm and sweet and playful.

Sicheng watched them fondly, nearly forgetting about the terrible course of events that had led the three of them out here.

“We must keep moving,” Jeno said, making Sicheng startle because he had forgotten the young elf was there. Jeno readjusted the reins in his hands and pointed his horse away from the sunrise. “We didn’t kill all of the baron’s men. We will lose our head start if we dally.”

Kun was already hauling himself back up onto his horse.

Sicheng climbed up onto the remaining steed and held out a hand to pull Guanheng up into the saddle.

“We’re off to see the warlock,” Jeno announced. “The wonderful warlock of the dead lands.”


	20. The Protagonist

Sicheng remembered his childhood.

Not just the horror of flames and smoke and violence and death and loss that still gave him nightmares. He also remembered the years of peace and friendship that came before. The comfort and safety he lived in before he devoted his life to coldness and sharpness.

The elf villages had been gorgeous back then, a beauty Sicheng didn’t think to appreciate until it all had been crushed flat and set ablaze around him.

In those glorious days of unspoiled youth, Sicheng spent the majority of his time with Jaehyun and Jungwoo. 

Those two were the closest to his age so their friendship was expected but not unwanted. The two of them were so smart and so practical that it was difficult  _ not _ to be impressed by them. Jaehyun was tall and handsome, even as a young boy, and his easy confidence and skill had him making  _ chores _ look fun. It was no problem at all for him to convince the others to draw water from the wells or repair broken fences or scrape the moss off the sides of houses or scare away green-skinned goblins or razor-toothed kobolds who ventured too close to the livestock pens. And Jungwoo, with his silky smooth speaking voice and infinite patience, had Sicheng desperate for the next opportunity to study and learn. He collected books, history and philosophy and law. Jungwoo also had a wide assortment of maps of varying sizes and degrees of accuracy and that’s how Sicheng learned the shape of the world. How the grasslands and rolling hills of the south eventually gave way to the dunes and the white-sand deserts. How the plains to the east eventually morphed into uncharted tundra and snow-capped mountains and frozen forests. How the western fields grew lush and thick with jungles and rivers before the land broke apart into the sea. And, of course, he learned of the topography of his own homeland. The north, where the great forests clustered around swamps and marshes before all life gave way to the dead lands.

As Jaehyun got a little older, he started spending more and more time with the older elves. First, the mature, feisty Yuta who was already well on his way to learning the art of the forge from his expert swordsman of a father. Second, the frail but brilliant Taeil who may not have been physically strong but his diligence let him sit in his room for hours or days and turn formless blocks of white stone dug up out of the earth into gorgeous and almost delicate-looking statues.

But as the elves aged, Sicheng soon grew to understand that his talent did not lie with farm work or tree-climbing like with Jaehyun. It didn’t even lie with writing or math or map-making like Jungwoo. It didn’t lie with sparring or blacksmithing like Yuta or in craftsmanship like Taeil. 

Sicheng’s natural talent was with magic.

And unlike the other boys who all had teachers or family to learn their trade from, Sicheng had to develop a relationship with magic all on his own.

A journey that he thought would be lonely and burdensome until the god of night spoke to him.

It amazed Sicheng that, even after all these years, all this hardship and loss and suffering, his bond with the god of night was still strong.

But even as powerful a mage as he was, Sicheng still knew when he was in the presence of even greater magic. “This is the warlock’s tower,” he presented it as a statement as opposed to a question.

“Impressive,” was Guanheng’s half-yawned response, his face still pressed to the nook between Sicheng’s shoulder blades.

“I wonder if his taste in tea is as grand as his taste in architecture,” Kun commented.

“He awaits us,” Jeno said. He swung a leg over the backside of his horse to dismount.

Sicheng slid off the saddle and then held up his arms to aid Guanheng down to the ground.

Kun helped Jeno with the horses while Sicheng took a moment to stare down the hill at the odd, fanciful city that spread out below them. 

The journey across the dead lands had taken half of the day and Jeno had only stopped them two or three times to allow the horses to rest. It had been right when Sicheng was starting to convince himself that Jeno was leading them to their deaths in the middle of the wasteland that the environment began to change. The once-distant mountains were now far behind them and in the center of the sea of sand and cracked earth, was a splotch of color and saturation, tucked away like a secret garden. Life had sprung up from the nothingness.

Grass and trees and rivers and lakes covered the little oasis in front of them, but there was something slightly off about it all. The grass was more blue than green. The trees had bright-red leaves and their trunks and branches twisted and curled into impossible shapes. The rivers flowed uphill and the waterfalls all purposefully fought gravity. Even the sky and clouds held a yellowish tint. It all came together in a bizarre clash of colors that seemed more suitable to a painting than to reality.

Guanheng said what Sicheng felt. “It looks unreal.”

“That kid was right,” Sicheng mumbled. “There really is life in the sea of sand.” And the thought wasn’t lost on him that all of these eccentric colors sprouted up out of this dead, rotten place with the warlock’s tower at its center. “Wow, I’m really not the main character, am I,” he wondered.

Guanheng tilted his head. “Hmm? What are you talking about?”

But before Sicheng could answer, there was a loud rumble that shook the earth beneath their boots.

The both of them turned around and watched in slack-jawed awe as the gorgeously ornate door to the warlock’s tower swung open.

Out into the sort-of-purplish sunlight stepped a young man. Tall, slender, pretty. He had stark white hair and wore a gaudily-embroidered set of mage robes that put Guanheng’s to shame.

Jeno dipped his head in reverence. “Great Warlock, I have brought them to you as per your request.”

The white-haired man smiled. “Hello, hello, hello,” he slowly sang out, his flighty voice like birdsong. “Thank you, Jeno, for bringing these NPCs to me.”

Jeno kept his eyes on the ground. “Whatever you desire, Great Warlock.”

Guanheng followed Jeno’s lead and bowed deeply at the waist. Even Kun in his full set of plate armor dipped respectfully low.

Sicheng, on the other hand, walked right up to the white-haired warlock. “And who might you be,” he asked, tense and ready to swing with any of the dozens of sharp, pointy weaponry within arm’s reach.

The Great Warlock almost looked like he couldn’t be bothered to introduce himself but after several seconds of staring down Sicheng, he finally glanced away and huffed, “My name is Taeyong.”


End file.
